


Marbles On Glass

by Denni



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Found Family, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mostly Gen, POV Multiple, Slow Build, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denni/pseuds/Denni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan doesn't know what he deserves--but it's not this. It's not a room full of people who aren't looking at him like he's a monster.</p>
<p>(Or: Nathan saves Max and makes friends.)  Takes place directly after episode four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Click

**Author's Note:**

> This will follow an "innocent as possible but guilty as necessary" theory for Nathan's involvement in the events of Life is Strange. 
> 
> It won't get shippy for a little while, but I hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> Will contain multiple-POVs.
> 
> Please be warned that this will contain subject matter similar to that of the games.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Written because I hated Nathan during the first three episodes and wanted to protect him by the fourth. I don't condone sexual assault, and if the fifth episode reveals Nathan to be guilty of that then this fic will likely end up deleted. 
> 
> Please don't harass me for hoping that a young mentally ill character will be portrayed as redeemable in a form of media that is repeatedly cruel to mentally ill people.

It's always the same conversation every time Max rewinds.

The first time, she groans awake, body lying heavy and bound on the floor of the darkroom she had broken into just hours earlier. At least it's a location she's familiar with. And predictable. Predictable is good.

Though she had only been in it once before, the bunker is familiar in that burned-into-your-brain sort of way. 

And Mr. Jefferson is there. God. _Mr. Jefferson_.

Jefferson stops bickering with Nathan when she wakes up with a moan and a pounding head. The scrutiny is too much. The tape around her limbs is too much, she knows without seeing it that the tape is silver and sticky and if she's lucky she might be able to chew through it with her teeth, but not with them watching. Her arms are pulled uncomfortably behind her back anyway.

She rewinds until it hurts, until the pain splinters her head and blooming red flowers blot her vision like bloody rorschach tests. The amount she can rewind has a limit, one that she has foolishly never timed. It's a duration of minutes, not hours. Of course it's not far enough to put her before the events of the junkyard—it's probably been hours since she saw Chloe die. Again.

It must have been the twelfth time she's seen her friend die, but it still feels like the first.

She rewinds until she can't bear it, and then back again. She pretends to be asleep, she listens to the conversation between Jefferson and Nathan, and then around the point where she first wakes up on her own accord, Jefferson moves to drug her again if she doesn't speak up.

She hasn't spoken up yet. Dozens of rewinds, probably more. A time-loop of her own creation. A time-loop she's stuck herself in on purpose because her wrists and ankles are bound and she doesn't see a way out of this.

She doesn't see a way out of this and she doesn't want to experience what's to come.

If she lets the scenario play for just one second past where she first wakes in the darkroom, that's a second less she can rewind, a second less she can think while feigning sleep on the white photography backdrop.

By now, she must have been thinking for hours inside the rewound minutes.

She rewinds again until her vision swims, and then she lets the scene play.

"Don't you think it's time you let me handle that?" Nathan's voice is as petulant as always. 

Max's vision is bleary as she cracks her eyelids open just enough for her consciousness to go unnoticed. It's a struggle to make out a clear picture of the two men across the room through her eyelashes and the harsh spotlight. But it's enough.

"I'll let you handle it when you show up sober," Jefferson replies, cold and amused all at once. Max had surmised by her fourth rewind that they're talking about administering another dose of that drug directly into her neck.

Though Jefferson implies that Nathan is high or drunk or both and Nathan doesn't protest, he doesn't seem either. He looks fucked up—eyes rimmed red and expression blank and twitchy—but not out of it. Not high. Not drunk.

"I'll show up sober when my dad stops emailing me between meetings to tell me what a terrible son I am." 

Jefferson's back is to Max, but Nathan is slouching casually against the desk, looking right at her. She's been through this enough times to know that he doesn't notice she's awake as long as she keeps her eyes cracked and breath even. 

"He's never going to see you as an adult. That's just how fathers operate. I understand why you have no desire to partake in the family business.” Jefferson holds up a full syringe to the light, casually examining the dosage. He's wearing thin, clear gloves and Nathan isn't. “But you can at least take this seriously, Nathan. Show a little professionalism."

Professionalism. Professionalism. The word makes Max want to scream no matter how many times she hears it from his smug mouth.

She is work to him. A project, an object, an inhuman thing.

"Okay, okay. I'm professional! I want to learn—tell me the dose, show me where to stick the needle. I'm here, I'm ready, let's do this." 

Maybe she's heard this conversation too many times, or maybe she can't get over her shock at Jefferson's involvement—but Nathan's words don't have the impact their subject matter should elicit. Nathan is nothing. Nathan is just another boy in a sea of teenage boys that treat girls like _things_ and in the shadow of Jefferson, a real adult with real power and more bite than the threat of wealthy parents—Nathan is nothing.

She can handle Nathan. Chloe was right when she called him a punk-ass kid. But Jefferson... Jefferson is a different matter entirely.

"Learning is important," Jefferson says, and god, he sounds so much like _Jefferson The Teacher_. "But don't you think it is a little late to show an interest now? I had hoped that after what happened to poor Rachel, you would be quicker to learn how to sedate them properly, without having to pump them with street drugs first. It was your fault she overdosed, after all."

Jefferson places the blame on Nathan like a comforting arm around his shoulder. The comment is offhand and lightly chastising. A mother's tough love and sweet forgiveness, all in one breath. Nathan does what Max thought she hadn't seen right the first four times she watched it—he grieves. His face twists up in unmistakable sorrow, then rage, and then nothing. Mr. Jefferson doesn't see a beat of it.

But Max does. And it's the only thing Nathan does during the entire exchange that unsettles her. The flash of emotion forces up a memory of Nathan in Two Whales Diner: when he mistakes her for Rachel and is downright elated to see her.

He has genuine fondness for Rachel. Why didn't she see it that day in Two Whales? It was written all over his face when he mistook her for a ghost. It wasn't the reaction of someone who wanted Rachel Amber dead. 

But he let this happen to her. He let her killer go unpunished—let Jefferson and himself go without true remorse. She wants to scratch him across the face again, deeper, stab with words where she knows it will hurt him: he did this to Rachel. 

Jefferson turns towards Max, all business, but Nathan catches him by the arm. 

The first time Max saw this exchange she thought that maybe a punch would follow. Maybe Nathan had a change of heart. Maybe he just didn't want to see another dead girl, for Rachel's sake. Maybe Jefferson assured him Rachel was a fluke and told him that carefully administered drugs meant no more dead girls—but Kate's suicide attempt slapped Nathan in the face with the reality that an overdose isn't the only way to damage these girls.

But no. Nathan catches Mr. Jefferson by the arm and says, "Come on, lemme drug the slut. Bitch has been a thorn in my side for weeks." 

Is that why Max is lying here tonight instead of Victoria? Because she tattled on Nathan Prescott? 

Victoria. Thank god it's not Victoria. Max might be able to handle this, somehow, with her powers—but Victoria would have been doomed. It's better that it's her, no matter what reason she's lying here instead of Victoria.

"This isn't about revenge, Nathan. It's work—well-paying work, might I add. So let's make this as clean as possible." At Nathan's sour expression Jefferson smiles kindly, "I'll let you do the honors next time, I promise."

Max hasn't let time slip much farther then this yet. If she does, Jefferson walks towards her and the stakes are raised too high with a needle close to her neck. Letting them dose her again will only waste more time. She can't let that needle touch her—but she can't stay in a time loop either. She needs to do something.

"Why don't you just let Nathan do it?" Max snaps with more fire than she should be using while her skin is aching under duct tape. "He's a big boy now—and it's not like it'll matter if he screws up. You're not planning to keep me alive anyway."

It's something she's been thinking for a while now. She knows too much. Jefferson won't let her live.

Jefferson doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, Max, you're awake. I didn't think you would be joining us."

Shoot. 

Shoot shoot shoot. What the hell is wrong with him?

Jefferson approaches her, needle hanging in his fingers like a cigarette. Nathan is hovering behind him, eyes flitting frantically between them as if an eager spectator to the impending cat-fight.

There's no way she's going to be able to talk her way out of this, not until she knows what they want to hear. She needs to provoke as much information as possible out of them so that she can go back and... she doesn't know what. Pretend to be on their side? Ask to join their fucked up photography company? Convince them to turn on each other?

"H-How long has Nathan Prescott been your little helper?" she says, managing to keep the heat in her voice despite its tremble. 

"Oh, I've known Nathan since he was very small," Jefferson says, shooting a fond look at the boy in question, whose response is a shaky, forced smile. "You could even say he's like a son to me. His father and I are great friends."

Max's mind races as it fills in the blanks—that explains the matching taste in photography—the photographs on Nathan's dorm walls.

Her eyes flit to Nathan's and she tries to push every ounce of the understanding she's feeling into her expression—along with an unspoken question: _How long has he been grooming you?_

Nathan's expression answers back: Don't pity me

"Ah yes, great friends, Sean Prescott and I. Great friendship is so hard to come by, don't you think?" Jefferson says, still wearing his casual teacher's smile. "Just like you and Chloe Price, I imagine."

That name in his mouth makes Max retch, her body convulses violent and painful against the hard floor as she lurches against her restraints. She screams, screams as if the sound will aid her escape. The part of her that is intelligence and not animal knows that screaming won't help.

Chloe will be fine. Chloe will be fine because she will always be fine as long as Max has a say in it. _C'mon, Max_ , she thinks, _you just have to make it out of this and then you can rewind using that selfie Warren took before the party. You can save her, you can._

"Wonderful—an opportunity to prove yourself," Jefferson says to Nathan. "Get the camera."

Nono, no, not this part. How? How dare they look at her grief, her love for her friend streaming in hot tears down her face, and think that they would like to have her pain framed on their wall in monochrome.

Nathan moves, mechanically, to lift a camera that is more expensive than her family's car. Jefferson withdraws too, setting the needle down and picking something else up. A stack of papers. Something. Not a weapon, not a weapon. She'll be okay for the moment.

Still, when Jefferson steps close her body bucks and scrambles on its own accord—she screams, a fractured, desperate sound that doesn't resemble anything she's heard on a horror movie. There's too much whine to it, too much sob, too much fear.

Jefferson is smiling. He crouches beside her, she draws away with every ounce of strength she can muster, lying on the floor like a tipped cow, hyper focused on the hand reaching towards her. It rests in her hair, damp and mangled from sweat, and brushes the mess back.

A camera flashes as she flinches away from the touch. 

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

She lurches forward, and sinks her teeth into Mr. Jefferson's hand so hard she can hear the skin break even through the gloves, like biting into a bruised apple.

The camera flashes again. 

Good.

Good. This is how she wants her pictures to look.

"Son-of-a—" Jefferson growls and tugs his hand away—her jaw is clamped so tight that her head jerks with it, and she only releases him for fear that her teeth won't withstand the abuse.

The camera clicks again. Her eyes flash to Nathan, furious, but it's clear from his position and his posture that he just took a photo of Jefferson, not her. Jefferson is too busy to notice, nursing the ring of teeth marks by his thumb.

Why? Is this Nathan's revenge against Jefferson for taking a picture of his doped-out self with Rachel's almost-corpse? Maybe Jefferson had blackmailed Nathan with that picture. Max looks at Jefferson's gloved hands, and then at Nathan's bare ones. Jefferson is careful... and he's allowing Nathan not to be. Jefferson wants Nathan tied to these crimes. He wants the evidence to point so strongly at a damaged, mentally ill boy poised to explode that no one will even consider famous Mark Jefferson suspect. Jefferson doesn't want anyone to get caught, but if it happens it's not going to be him—he's making sure of that. How long has he been making sure of that?

Could she pin this on Jefferson at all if she got out of this now? It would be her word against his. She can't risk him getting away with this. _Real justice_ , that's what Chloe had said.

Whether or not Nathan is taking those pictures to help himself or help them both—she doesn't care. It's evidence she needs. 

Deliberately, she says, "Nice shot, Nathan."

He freezes and stares. And then smiles.

Jefferson, oblivious, says, "They better be nice shots. His work hasn't impressed me yet, but you make an interesting subject, Max Caulfield." 

His words are hoarse enough to be satisfying but calm enough to be insulting. She needs to make the blood flow next time. She clearly didn’t bite hard enough.

"I do wonder what these shots would look like in your style, Max. I wasn't lying when I said you had potential. But alas, teenage talent is fleeting and often never followed through on." He turns to look at Nathan, "Camera at the ready, these will be the best shots you ever take." He pauses, holds Nathan's gaze, "You can do this."

The promise sends anxiety rushing through her body like water through a broken gutter. Is he going to hurt her? Let Nathan snap pictures between kicks? Cuts? Should she rewind before she finds out? 

They're only letting her stay coherent for this because Jefferson plans to kill her after. She's sure of that.

Nathan sobers at the encouragement, like he can't remember the last time he's heard anyone believe in him. He squares his shoulders and readies the camera. Whatever Jefferson is about to do to her, Nathan is going to watch it through a lens.

To her surprise, Jefferson shuffles backwards and picks up the papers he had brought over. She had forgotten about them.

Her heart pounds in her chest but she feels like she can breathe again with Jefferson a few feet farther away from her. _He's trying to stay out of the shot_ , she thinks. 

There's a moment when she realizes what's in his hands—photographs. Another instant in which she surmises what they are. Pictures of the other girls. Maybe Chloe's dead body, already posed and defiled with these photographs. Meant to upset her. Joke's on him, if that's what they are. She's seen Chloe dead a million times. These won't faze her—not in the way he thinks.

Still crouching, he flips to the first picture. It's Chloe. Dead. Above Rachel's unmarked grave. The photograph is professional, uncrude in a way that makes no logical sense. For the first time she doesn't find a shot of Nathan's or Jefferson’s begrudgingly beautiful. It's trash. Utterly talentless trash.

Anger flares up, but she expected this. It's okay. She won't give them the satisfaction of a powerfully emotional shot. The camera flashes anyway. 

Her blank expression should discourage Jefferson, but instead he smirks and flips to the next picture in the stack.

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t happening. 

How long had she been drugged? 

She often thought about what the other girls would feel, what Kate would feel, seeing the pictures they took of her while she was drugged, pictures she had no memory of. How sickening it would be to see your body in places and poses you have never experienced. All this time Max had been glad she was awake for her photoshoot. This photoshoot.

But the picture in his hands—oh, god—it means that this is the second photoshoot tonight. 

There she was, curled up with Chloe in the grass and dirt, their fingers laced, both of their expressions dead. Chloe actually dead. 

Click.

Jefferson flips to the next photo. A close up of their faces, posed so that their foreheads are touching, blood smears across Max's forehead. 

Click.

She doesn't know what expression is on her face now, but she can hear her own breath as if it's not of her own making, stitched together and ragged and falling apart through torn lungs.

Click.

Photo. After photo.

Click.

Chloe. Her. Chloe.

Click.

An entire stack of photos. 

Click.

Chloe. They posed her body like a rag doll. They posed Max's body like...

Click.

Nathan. Nathan is taking pictures. Nathan was probably there when these photos were taken. Nathan who she thought might be on her side for the stupidest instant of her life. Nathan is watching her pain and _taking pictures_

Click.

She screams, loud enough that it sends her own ears ringing. She kicks and contorts against the tape. 

Click.

She is going to murder Nathan Prescott. She is going to kill him and Jefferson but right now Nathan is the one calmly taking her picture and she wants him _dead._

Click.

She is going to fucking kill him, and she directs a growl at him to tell him so—but he isn't there. There is no one wielding the camera. It is on a timer, set to shoot at an interval, sitting alone on an equipment crate.

Click.

Breath heavy, she struggles to scan the room. Mr. Jefferson must think she's looking for a weapon or a way out. He chuckles.

Click.

Nathan is behind Jefferson, a glimmering, metal pole from a disassembled tripod in his hand. 

Click.

He brings it down over Jefferson's head. Max's scream is more of a squeal when Jefferson doubles over, body slumping too close to hers.

Click.

With a powerful lurch, she spins her body around so that her bound feet are pointed right at Jefferson, and then she curls up and uncoils, delivering the hardest kick to Jefferson's face that she can muster with her feet tied together.

Click.

His glasses don't crunch the way she hoped they would, but the metal frames twist like a wrecked car. Nathan brings the pipe down over Jefferson's head again. 

Click.

And then over his back, and then every inch of him without discrimination. Max laughs, and sobs, and _breathes._


	2. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings (other than the stuff that can be assumed based on the game's plot):  
> Disassociation, entitlement, violence, self-harm, ableism and ableist slurs, gendered slurs, mentions of students being attracted to/charmed by Mr. Jefferson.

Nathan beats Jefferson's body until Max is all calm, shuddering breaths. It doesn't take Nathan long to quit, throwing the pipe at the wall, not caring about the portraits it knocks askew. 

Jefferson is unconscious. Possibly dead. Max doesn't care.

Click.

Looping his arms under Jefferson's, Nathan drags the unresponsive man across the room. 

Click.

The sound of duct tape being pulled from its roll rips across the silence. Jefferson must be alive if Nathan is taking the time to tie him up.

Click.

In one rough movement, Nathan marches across the room and scoops up the camera, hurling it at the wall and effectively shutting it up. Max almost protests the loss of photographic evidence of self-defense and Jefferson's involvement—but then she can practically hear Warren telling her it will be okay, because there's no way the SD card was damaged within the protective shell of the camera.

As if trying to pinch himself awake from a bad dream, Nathan's shaking fingers claw at his hair, his neck, his body. When he starts pacing, audible breath frighteningly erratic, Max knows she has to consider her words carefully.

Will he hurt her? Killing her in addition to Jefferson might cover the whole thing up. But that would leave three disappearances all on the same day—is he foolish enough to think he can run from this?

She'll never know unless she asks, and if it doesn't go well she can always rewind. "Are you trying to decide whether or not to kill me, Nathan Prescott?"

Nathan's look is pure venom. She expects him to say _maybe_ or just call her a nosey bitch and blame her for how the night went, but instead he says, "Doesn't matter, doesn't fucking matter—don't you see? We're all dead anyway."

Nonsense. He's talking pure nonsense and she is still lying heavy on the floor, barely able to flex her fingers. Her hair is sweaty, clinging to her damp face, strands fall into her mouth when she speaks. "...What exactly does that mean, Nathan?"

"Rachel's dead. You get to live a few more minutes than you were going to if _he_ ," Nathan punctuates the pronoun with a kick to Mr. Jefferson's still form, "had his way. But it doesn't matter. I gave you minutes and it doesn't fucking matter because we're all dead anyway. Rachel is dead. Couldn't let it be Victoria. Not that it matters, we're all going to die. At least Victoria didn't have to go through this _shit_ first." Another kick to Jefferson.

This nonsense makes more sense than it should; detective Max did her job well. "You didn't mean for Rachel to die, I could tell from the look on your face when Jefferson blamed you. He's full of shit."

Nathan allows himself a moment of surprise at how kindly she's painting him before he shrugs his shoulders like he's trying to scratch an itch. "Who the fuck cares if I'm sorry or not? The police don't—my family won't. Who the fuck cares if I regret it? I've spent my whole life scrambling to fix what I regret—to fix me, the way I make people—my father look at me."

The load is too heavy and Max is not qualified to bear it. Judging by the letters she found from Nathan's therapist, even a trained professional is in over their head with Nathan's woe.

"I'm never good enough, never," Nathan says, face buried into his clawing fingers. "Everyone hates me, everyone."

"That's funny, Nathan."

"What?" he snaps, cutting her off. "Because I'm rich, everyone automatically likes me? Is that it? Is that what you think? That I have it easy? Easy!"

"No," she says, unfazed by his insecurity. "It's funny because I want to hate you—I want to hate you a lot right now. But I can't, not like I hate Mr. Jefferson. Not after knowing a little bit of the truth." Not after knowing that Jefferson likely charmed Nathan—groomed him into this. Cultivated his interests and his entitlement, his inability to see women as human beings. Hell, society does enough of all those things to a boy when left to its own devices. Nathan didn't need Jefferson to teach him how to dehumanize women. "You fucked up, Nathan, but you're sorry, that means something, even if it's hard for people like me to swallow."

"Yeah, bitch?" the word cracks, like he doesn't want to say it but realizes that too late, "Tell me what it means."

"It means you're changing your mind." Changing his mind about the worth of people other than himself. Did Victoria teach him that, by being his friend? Or was it Rachel?

He stops. Stops twitching and pacing and clawing at himself. He doesn't look at Max. Eventually, he laughs—short and quick and more of an exhale than anything. “She's trying to save you.” He's talking to himself, studying the quake of his fingers with a far-away expression. “She's trying to save you because she doesn't know. She doesn't fucking know.”

Pain, pain everywhere. Pain in her bones and skin and heart. It's too cold in here, the floor is too hard, her fingers are numb, her ankles sore. She needs to save Chloe. “What don't I know, Nathan?” Despite her impatience, she does want to hear his answer.

She expects a dismissive laugh, a growl of frustration, an assertion that the answer she's looking for is too big for her to comprehend and he doesn't know where to start—but instead he just scrubs his sleeve across his eyes and sighs. 

“What are you doing?” she asks when he moves across the room to rummage in the desk drawers. 

No answer. He emerges with something in his hand. Something sharp and metallic. A knife? No—the way he's gripping it—it has to be a pair of scissors. Nathan turns towards her, then hesitates, backtracking until he's leaning on the desk. Crossing his arms, he appraises her.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks finally.

“Do what?”

“Cut you loose.” He holds up the scissors, dangling them from his fingers, allowing them to swing gently as if to tempt her. “I'm sick of seeing you lie there like roadkill. You're even more of an eyesore than usual.”

As if she has a choice. Trust Nathan Prescott to make this situation about him. “What, are you asking me to beg first? Waiting for me to promise I'll never snitch on you?

“I don't give a shit what your nosy twee ass does anymore, Caulfield. You really don't know how much I don't fucking care.”

“Fuck you, Prescott,” she growls against her better judgment. Why does he have to escalate everything? Is that the only way he could get attention from _Daddy Prescott_? 

Shit. Now is not the time for judgment.

Nathan needs help. And unlike some people, she's never meant that as an insult.

At least he seems more like a bratty child right now than someone who's planning to manipulate her into a false sense of security. 

As if he's the one being inconvenienced, Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose. Beneath his jacket, his breath is visibly deep, controlled. 

“Finally executing some of those calming exercises your therapist recommends?” Shit. She's clearly picked up Chloe's dangerous habit of poking bee-hives whenever the opportunity presents itself. 

“You...” Nathan laughs, harsh but with genuine amusement. “You've got a smart mouth, Max. Especially for such a pipsqueak.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“Look, do you want me to cut you free or not—shit, that sounded like a threat. It wasn't,” the way he growls the words discredits them. He meets her eyes from across the room, weary. “I. I just. I don't want you to freak the fuck out when I bring the scissors over.”

Is... is that the source of his hesitation? “Worried that I'll kick you in the face like I did Jefferson?”

“Fuck no. Your little bitch boy Warren did that plenty already. What's a few more cuts and bruises? You think I care? I don't. Kick me all you want.”

For the first time Max wonders how tonight would have gone if she had let Warren continue to pummel Nathan. Would Nathan have been mobile enough to attack Jefferson and help her escape? Maybe not. She almost feels guilty.

“Look—I'm trying, to... to do the right thing here,” he says it like the words leave a bad taste in his mouth, swirling one hand in the air as if the whole situation is ridiculous. “I'm asking if you're ready for me to let you loose or if you need to _talk about it_ some more before you _feel safe_ enough for me to come over there.”

Ha. Way to belittle her. God forbid she's afraid of the guy who abducted her. Of course she's the one inconveniencing him by not dishing out the instant forgiveness. Because those things don't take time and proof or anything. Fuck him.

It's sick the way it obviously pains him to try his hand at accommodating her needs—where she expected empathy and regret she only sees a bruised ego for having to knock himself down a peg in order to be remotely kind to her. 

Now he's trying to award her some agency? Some choice in how the night proceeds? After all he's let happen to all those girls. How many has it been? Dozens of names in that cabinet. Surely there hasn't been enough Vortex Club parties for all of those folders. Were most of the victims Jefferson's solo projects?

Max scoffs. “You're kidding me right?” It's too little too late. Somewhere, distantly, she recognizes that he's trying to make this better—and being an ass about her needs is his definition of better right now. He'll never learn if she praises him for a lackluster understanding of empathy and an obvious sense of entitlement. That's the last thing he needs. “I'm not going to feel safe with you holding a sharp object anywhere near me. But you're right—I can't cut myself free. So just do it.”

“Sue me,” he grumbles, pushing off the desk to kneel behind her.

Like a good samaritan approaching a wounded stray dog, Nathan's movements are tentative. She strains to keep her eye on him as she offers up her wrists with what little mobility she has. Nathan's expression is void of all its previous petulance. Gravely, he steadies her trembling fingers with one hand and positions the scissors with the other. The metal is cold and sharp and she almost flinches away from it. The sound of snipping is all the encouragement she needs to struggle the rest of the way out of the tape.

Nathan scoots away as she pushes herself into a sitting position. He offers her the scissors so that she can cut her own ankles free and she snatches them without hesitation, gripping the blades like a weapon. Once her ankles are free she turns to Nathan.

The sort of justice Chloe intended is steady in her palm, glinting, sharp silver. 

Is this what she wants? Is this what Chloe would want, if she were here? Max isn't so sure. Surely Chloe would never forgive Nathan—she'd probably be beating his ass right now. But Chloe's not here. Max is. 

“If you're going to stab me, stab me in the dick,” Nathan's tone is full of dark humor and self-depreciation. “It's what got me into this fucking mess.”

A rush of horror shoots through her. “Are you...! Are you seriously going with the _men can't control themselves around hot women defense_? Oh, let me guess—it was Rachel and Kate's fault for tempting you— _bullshit_.” Her fist shakes with anger, griping the scissors painfully hard—if he doesn't change his tune in two seconds she's going to ruin his face.

“Relax, I never touched them! Never hurt them—not like that.”

She slams her free hand against the ground, eyes burning. “Then what the hell did you mean?” 

Hesitation seeps into Nathan's features, his eyes flit to Jefferson's body across the room—she expects to see her old teacher awake and dangerous again, but when she turns to look he's still slumped against the floor. 

She whirls back to glower at Nathan, brandishing the scissors. “Nathan. Tell me what you meant.” 

The look on Nathan's face almost takes her aback—fear, real fear. Did he look this afraid when Warren jumped him in the boy's dorm?

“Oh come on Max,” he says finally, eyes locked on the scissors in her hands, voice frantic. “You're making me feel like a freak here—is it really that hard to figure out? I mean, the entire god damn female population at Blackwell wanted in Mark Jefferson's pants—“

“Are you saying these things happened because those girls,” she gestures widely at the cabinets behind them, Nathan flinches, “wanted in Jefferson's pants?”

“No, I'm saying _I kinda did._ ” His frown is full of self-loathing. “That's why I'm in this mess. Among other things. Just another cog in the stupidity machine, really.”

Oh.

_Oh._

The implication short-circuits her brain. So many of the assumptions she's made throughout the entire case have been under the premise that the abductions were sexually motivated. Maybe they still were on Jefferson's part. But if Nathan's telling the truth, if he's into men... then that changes a lot.

What the hell was he thinking, helping Jefferson kidnap women because of a _crush_ on the older man? In what universe would that turn out well? Not that she can blame him for being charmed by Jefferson—hell, the whole student body was. That's what creeps her out the most about Jefferson. They trusted him. They all trusted him. Jefferson must have been so proud of himself for that. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

“Yeah,” Nathan spits in answer to her shocked silence. “I'm gay. You're the first person I've told besides my sister. Congratufuckinglations.”

Something about that stings, just a little. Without thinking, she says, “I kissed Chloe.”

Shoot. That was stupid. And irrelevant. Extremely irrelevant. Awkward Max is awkward. 

Nathan must take pity on the flush that burns across her cheeks, because he just shakes his head and says, “Great, we're all out of the closet. Now what?”

She doesn't know. She has to save Chloe, but it's not like she can tell Nathan that, right? The party was just hours ago—if she uses the photo Warren took outside the party, it shouldn't cause too large of a butterfly effect—not like when she saved William. If she can't use the photo Warren took to go back to the party, then Chloe is dead permanently. She has no choice but to do it. Until she can get her hands on the photo, she might as well find out as much information as possible.

“So you were just involved in all of this to... what? Impress Mr. Jefferson?”

“He showed me some photographs, joked about how his models were all wasted girls he found at parties—and being the morbid idiot I am I thought it was fucking genius.”

Max cringes.

“When I didn't respond with a threat to call the cops I guess he decided I was going to be his _protege_ ,” he spits the last word, self-hatred evident as he rakes his fingers through his hair. “And I fucking...”

“Trusted him?” Max offers, gut twisting the same way it did when she saw Mr. Jefferson scold Kate about her video, right before she went up to the roof. “Wanted to make him proud?”

That seems to be a theme for the students of Blackwell. Always eager to impress Mark Jefferson. Even her. She feels sick. 

“Yeah, pathetic, right?”

“No... I, I don't know, Nathan. This whole thing is fucked up. Why didn't you realize how fucked up it was, what he was doing to those girls?”

He sighs. “I mean, the girls were going to spend their whole night getting high anyway, and they don't get hurt, he just takes pictures. They don't remember a thing—so who cares, right? Sure, it was dark shit, but... even your friend Warren likes fucked up movies where shit like this happens. I was desensitized to dark shit”

There are so many things wrong with that logic. So fucking many. “Nathan, it is _not_ okay to do anything to someone against their will. Or without them knowing.”

“Yeah—yeah, I fucking know that now. Don't you think I know that now?” He rolls his eyes, fingers tapping rapidly against his thigh. “I didn't care when it wasn't real. I didn't give a shit when it was just him showing me some random chicks in pictures—y'know?”

Max definitely did not know. 

“Don't look at me like that, Max. I learned my lesson. Joke's on me when he asked me to join him on one of his little photo-shoots. I show up and it's Rachel, he already had her doped up on something. I had a bad feeling right away—just didn’t feel right. But he told me she'd think it was funny in the morning, that she'd like the shots we took of her.” 

“So, Rachel was the first girl you helped him... photograph?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.” She doesn't know what else to say.

After a long moment, Nathan says, voice barely audible, “I thought it was an accident at first, that she just overdosed—but I think Jefferson gave her too much. On purpose. _Fuck._ ” He draws his knees up to his chest and hides his face. “At one point she woke up and was royally pissed. I think maybe that's why...”

Max watches him rock slightly, back and fourth, fingers clawing at his own skin as if to protect himself from a memory. She can't bring herself to comfort him.

“And then what happened?” she prompts. 

“The fucker just, just acts like nothing happened! Not even fazed. Treated her death like... like his camera ran out of film. An equipment malfunction.” He sits up again, angry. “I think he could tell that the whole thing fucked me up. He kept casually reminding me that if anyone found out, they'd see the picture he took of me with her in the junkyard—I don't even remember posing for that picture. Of course I was high though, so it's my own fucking fault.”

“Why didn't you just go to the cops, Nathan? Your dad has money, he could have hired lawyers...”

Nathan flies to his feet, gesturing angrily—Max tenses, gripping the scissors tighter in her hands.

“How could I, Max? Jefferson wouldn't have hesitated to kill me. Besides, he and my dad are _friends!_ My dad already thinks I'm a paranoid freak—even if my dad did believe me I'd be ruining my family's reputation by being involved in this—“

“Maybe it deserves to be ruined,” Max shoots back.

“You're right, you're right, Max. Is that what you want to hear? I'm a selfish piece of shit who should have taken the risk, who shouldn't have played along to save my own fucking worthless life? Well, here I am, _changing my mind_. I don't care. I don't care because the storm is coming, Max. Tomorrow! We're all dead anyway.”

“You're right, that's exactly what I think, you're a selfish prick—wait, did you say storm?”

Nathan whines, high-pitched and frustrated, like he just dropped his five-thousand dollar camera.

“Nathan? What storm?”

There's only one exit, but Nathan's eyes dart around the room like he's looking for an escape route. Why is this of all things making him nervous? He was comparatively casual discussing his involvement in a murder just minutes ago, but being probed about his mention of a storm—possibly _the_ storm—has him wracking with avoidance? 

“The tornado that happens tomorrow?” Max leans in to catch his eye. “October 11th, 2013? How do you know about that?”

“What the fuck. What the _fuck_.” Before Max can react Nathan smacks himself on the head, once, twice, three times—hard enough that the sound startles her. “This isn't happening, this isn't real!”

“Nathan—Nathan!” She scrambles to her feet, wanting to reach out to him, to stop him from hitting himself, but she hesitates, afraid. “I'm real, this is happening—I've seen the tornado.”

“You expect me to believe that?” he snaps. Max recoils. “Who put you up to this, huh? My therapist? My _father_? This isn't fucking funny!”

“What? No one put me up to this. I've seen the tornado myself, like I was really there.”

“Yeah fucking right. Yeah fucking right.” 

The white backdrop wrinkles under his feet as he paces again, muttering to himself, occasionally hitting himself. Max backs the fuck up.

 _He was outside in the parking lot, having a fit by himself,_ she recalls someone saying about Nathan a few days ago at Two Whales. 

Is this typical Nathan Prescott behavior? Sure seems like it. He was talking to himself that day in the girl's bathroom. He lashed out violently in the parking lot. 

If she ran, bolted for the door and got the hell out of the barn, would Nathan rush after her? Try to hurt her? No. He seems more of a danger to himself right now, as long as he's left unprovoked. She should just go.

Unbidden, she remembers sitting on the grass with him in the alternate timeline, the concerned texts from him that suggested friendship. 

Trying her best to look calm, she steps towards him. “Nathan, I'm going to sound crazy,” shit, bad word choice, bad Max, “but I think I'm the only one who can stop the storm. So I need you to tell me everything you know about it.”

“You think you sound crazy?!” he screams, thrusting his hand into his jacket pocket and emerging with something—Max almost bolts for the door before she recognizes the object in his hand as an orange prescription pill bottle. “Don't you know? I'm the one who's crazy here, Max!” he throws the bottle at the floor, hard enough to pop it open—pills ricochet up to hit her in the shin. “I've been having nightmares about that fucking storm my entire life, and now you say you know about it too—yeah right—yeah fucking right—who,” he crumples, falling to his knees, voice broken by sobs, “who the fuck put you up to this?”

Max's knuckles are white around the scissors, her eyes hot with tears. Shoot. She doesn't know how to feel about Nathan, she doesn't know the extent of what he's been through or what he's done, but what she's seeing right now is real pain, years of it pent up and bursting, and that's hard to watch, even if she does kind of hate his guts.

Chloe would probably scold her for taking any action right now other than laughing in Nathan's face. Maybe Nathan deserves that. Max doesn't know. 

Tentatively, she tucks the scissors in her pocket and approaches him, crouching by his sobbing form. 

“Nathan, I'm going to tell you something I've only told Chloe, will you please just give me a chance and listen?” Maybe he can hear the tears in her throat, the way her voice cracks with sadness. He stops shaking, his sobs soften. He's listening. “I was there that day in the bathroom, when you pulled a gun on Chloe. And believe me when I say that's the least strange thing that happened to me that day—“

And she tells him. She tells him everything. About her powers, about how she used them to save Chloe and Kate, and even how she tried to save William. And Nathan listens, head buried in his sleeve. Halfway through he even uncoils a little, lifts his head slightly to look at her while she fumbles through the details. When she finishes, Nathan sits up straighter, staring at the ground between his knees. 

Eventually, he says, “I've been having nightmares about that fucking storm—exactly like you just described—ever since I was a kid. Same dream every time. Feels so fucking real I'd swear it was a memory. Could feel the rain on my skin and all that jazz.” He turns to her, forlorn. “Even if I told you every last detail, I don't think it would help you. It's just a storm. The only thing that connects it to reality is the date it happens, which you already know.”

Why? Why would Nathan Prescott of all people have some connection to her visions? “So you believe me?” she asks after the silence stretches too far. “About the rewind powers?”

Nathan snorts, smile unsure. “I don't have to, right? You're going to fix all of this.”

Is that why he's so much calmer? He likes the idea of the past week being erased? “I... don't know. I'm going to try.”

“Well, we better get going then,” he gets to his feet and brushes dust from his pants. His face is still splotchy from crying. “You said you need to find Graham? Use the picture of you he took before the party to travel back?”

“Yeah...” Is this really happening? Is Nathan Prescott really inviting himself to join her perpetual quest to save Chloe? “But I don't exactly need your help, Nathan. No offense.”

“Ouch.”

“Besides, you haven't even asked me to prove that my powers are real.” 

“Fine, if it makes you feel better,” he grabs a sharpie out of the desk and writes something on his hand. “What's written on my hand?”

Max sighs. “Well, show me, and then I'll go back and tell you before you showed me.”

Obligingly, Nathan offers her his palm. It's the angry emoji that has a hatred of tables.

She rewinds. Nathan is still drawing the emoji on his hand.

“What's written on my hand?”

“The table flipping emoji,” she says without hesitation.

Nathan does a double-take. 

Ha. Not so nonchalant now, are we, Prescott?

“Where are my scars?” he asks, unprompted. 

Is he just playing with her now, or does he really need more evidence?

“You have to tell me where they are so I can go back and tell you.”

“On the inside of my thighs. I cut myself there so no one would see it.”

Wow. How many kids did Nathan and his posse bully enough to hurt the same way he did? How is it possible that he never felt bad for what he made other people feel?

She rewinds. 

“Where are my scars?”

“On the inside of your thighs, so no one would see. You cut yourself.”

“Why?” he prompts.

“You didn't tell me—haven't I given you enough proof? How could I have possibly known about the scars on your thighs, Nathan?”

“Bah—fine. I'm just amazed, that's all. It's trippy as hell.”

“You're telling me.”

Nathan laughs, seemingly elated. “So are we going back to campus or not? I can get you into the boy's dorms to have a little chat with Warren. Easy peasy.”

Is it really a good idea to take Nathan along as her sidekick? His mood did a complete one-eighty from a few minutes ago. He went from completely broken to excited and hopeful in no time... If Max was sobbing into her knees a moment ago she wouldn't be capable of anything close to elation now, she'd be stuck in a whirlpool of shame and embarrassment. But Nathan seems perfectly fine.

Oh, well, at least he won't remember anything when she focuses back through the picture and changes everything.

“I guess... yeah, that's the plan.”


	3. orca song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that it's taking a while to get to the shippy stuff!!! Thank you for reading regardless!!! 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: self-harm, thoughts of suicide, mentions of physical/emotional abuse, gendered and ableist slurs, and as always subject matter related to the game's content.

The drive that connects the barn to the rest of civilization is long and narrow and largely unpaved. Trees loom over both sides of road in a way that is unavoidably unsettling at night, even with the high beams on. The aesthetic of it, a dark narrow path illuminated by headlights, is enough to mix in some excitement along with the anxiety it usually induces for Nathan.

This is the first time Nathan feels happy making the drive from the barn back to Blackwell. It's the first time Nathan can remember feeling happy in a long while. 

"Will you knock it off?" Max asks, tiny and annoyed behind the wheel of his SUV. The way she has to sit up incredibly straight to see over the wheel amuses him more than it should. Serves her right for insisting that she be the one to drive. 

What a fucking unnecessary precaution. What does she think, that if he drove he would run them off the road? That he was lying about his sexuality and is really luring her off into the woods horror movie style? Bah. She must be an idiot if she thinks he wants anything more than for her to undo this whole fucking week with her freak powers. 

"Seriously Nathan, knock it off!" She actually reaches over to slap his hands away from the dashboard where they are tapping a rapid beat into the hard plastic.

The jolt of annoyance that shoots through him is larger than the small altercation calls for. Being aware of that doesn't make the feeling any less powerful. He hates being interrupted. He hates being touched. He hates that people won't care even if he tells them how much he hates it. No one ever cares. What he feels is never valid because what he feels is never _quiet_ or _reasonable_ or _normal_.

"Hey, hands to yourself, Caulfield." He switches to drumming on his thighs instead, curling his legs up so that his knees rest against the dash. "Don't think I won't cut you."

"Try it and I'll W+M1 your face with a crowbar."

"I have no idea what that means—and what is your obsession with my face, Max?" The souvenirs from their parking lot confrontation are still dim red strips down his face. They're reminders of a situation he can't take back. "Those scratches are going to scar, you know. I hope you're proud of yourself."

He knows he's being unfair the instant he says it, and a fucking hypocrite too. Seeing Kate on that roof is proof of the permanent damage he's caused people. Rachel is proof. The scars on his face are nothing in comparison. And deserved. And honestly kinda cool. He should have kept his mouth shut. 

"Yeah? Well, this whole mess has left a scar on my brain." She keeps her eyes on the road. "I have nightmares about the way you grabbed my neck. No one's ever done that to me before. It was scary."

Scary. Scary. Scary. Just like his dad. _The difference between you and your father,_ he remembers his psychologist saying, _is that you tear yourself apart with turmoil trying to validate your actions—whereas your father is unwavering and righteous about everything he does._

"I lashed out. I get it. I'm a terrible fuck-up who pushes the other kids down when they say mean things. I know. Just drop it. I don't need this right now."

"I don't think you do get it, Nathan. I think you don't want to think about what you've done long enough to really understand how much you hurt people." 

She doesn't even know him. No one does. No one cares. She doesn't know shit. "I said drop it.”

"You literally just threatened to cut me—and don't tell me it was just a joke, I know it's a thing people say—but how can you say something like that after you just had me tied up? It's fucked up.”

It is and she's right and he said it by accident. “I won't do it again. Okay? Happy now?”

Max just shifts in the driver's seat, looking about ready to pull the car over and kick him to the curb. 

He needs to keep his fucking mouth shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Will you at least put your seat-belt on?” she shoots a glare at him. “I don't exactly actually have my driver's license.”

“No thanks,” he says. “If you crash, I deserve to die, right?” There's too much honesty in the words to give them the bite he intends. Not enough sarcasm and way too much self-pity.

“I don't think you deserve to die,” she replies, as if he had accused her. Maybe he was accusing her. “I want you to put on your seat-belt.”

Too many things rush through his head—he has to quell the impulse to argue, to blurt out something about how he never wears his seat-belt because he wants to die but is too much of a fucking coward to do it, and riding in vehicles without a seat-belt makes him feel like he has some control over his fate. 

Instead of saying another thing tonight that he shouldn't, instead of classically over-sharing, like he always does, to people who don't care, he swallows his impulse and buckles his seat-belt.

“Thank you,” Max says, stiffly.

Nathan crosses his arms, sinks further down into the passenger's seat, and glares at the blur of trees out the window.

This is going to be a long, excruciatingly quiet ride.

As if reading his thoughts, Max reaches over and turns on the radio. His CD automatically starts playing, filling the car with the gurgling ebb of ocean waves and orca song. 

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

It takes every ounce of restraint to resist rushing to turn the CD off. He can't give her the satisfaction of seeing him embarrassed about who he is. He can't.

“God,” she breathes after a few minutes, “I'm sorry, but the whale noises are creepy as shit.” She shuts off the radio.

He laughs, feeling like he he won the stand-off. “I think you mean _incredibly soothing_.”

Max whines in disagreement. “Hell no. It makes me feel like there's something out in the trees, something big, watching me.”

“You're making me feel like a freak again,” he points out, just to be mean. Mostly he's amused.

“Sorry, but I don't know how anyone can find that haunting sound _soothing_.”

“Makes me sleep like a baby.”

“Ugh.”

He's smiling and he thinks maybe Max is too, despite her mock disgust at his choice in tunes.

“Don't you have like, bird sounds or something? That would be way less creepy.”

“Nope.”

“Thunderstorms?”

“What! Fuck you!”

“Oh—right—sorry, yeah, that was bad.”

Fuck. She just witnessed his melt-down over the storm dream, too.

“I'm sorry. I mean it,” she says, and... he believes her. “The vision kinda forever ruined thunderstorms for me, too.”

Conversation with her is so stressful that it's hard to believe what she said about them being friends in some weird alternate universe. But she hasn't thrown him out of the car yet.

“Can I ask you something?” she says after a while, eyes locked on the road. 

“Go ahead.”

“Why did you drug Chloe?”

Ah. They're friends. Of course she would know about that. It's... it's better if Max asks him these things, instead of silently mistrusting him. It's better this way, even if it is painful to be put on the spot.

“She singled me out in a bar some of Jefferson's... business partners own. They _forget_ ,” he makes sure the air-quotes are audible, “to check ID's all the time. I don't know if they think Jefferson just has a thing for young girls or if they know what he does with them once he lures them from the bar. But regardless, I was there getting drunk off my ass.”

“Uh-huh...” 

“So Price comes in, and starts hitting on me of all people. We knew each other through Blackwell—I thought she hated my guts so the whole thing was suspicious. Being the paranoid ass I am, I almost wondered if Jefferson was setting me up, testing my loyalty. I tried my best to look interested regardless, since the last thing I want is to out myself to the whole fucking town.”

“Out yourself as a potential creep who abducts women or--”

“As a guy who doesn't like chicks, smartass.”

“Right.”

“It became pretty clear that she was trying to get her hands down my wallet, not my pants, so that was good news. Except, then... I... was wasted and had a stupid idea that I thought would benefit us both.” Max isn't going to believe him. He wouldn't believe him. He has to tell her anyway. He's too fucking exhausted to make up a lie. “I took her back to my dorm—at her encouragement. And. It just seemed so perfect. I had been flipping out for days, wondering how to convince Jefferson I was still on his side after what happened to Rachel. I was sure he would kill me too, make it look like an accident, as soon as he found out I wasn't... like him. That I didn't want to do this shit. That I didn't want him to.”

“And so?”

“And so I thought—hey, if I dose Price and take a few shitty pictures, Jefferson will think I still want to be his bitch, and he _won't_ kill me. And I'm doing this Chloe chick a favor at the same time, because Jefferson won't try to abduct her a second time—it'd be too risky because she might be really suspicious if it happened twice.”

“Why Chloe though?”

He almost wants to lie and call it _opportunity_ alone, but that's not entirely true. “I knew she was on Jefferson's _list_ big time. Probably because Rachel talked about her all the time. Who knows. I know you're going to flip your shit when I say this, but I thought I was saving her from something... much worse.”

Understanding flashes across Max's face but she doesn't say anything.

Interesting. He tilts his head. “What is it?”

Her glance is appraising. “We ran into Jefferson right before we broke into your dorm. In hindsight he was being really creepy towards Chloe. Almost flirting.”

 _Before we broke into your dorm_. She's not going to mention the part where he got pummeled into the floor by her nerd squad. Nice. “So what you're saying is...?”

She sighs. “I believe you that she was on Jefferson's list. It fits. If what you say is true, then I think you did save her, in some messed up way that was a lot more traumatizing for her than just calling the police.”

“Well, gee, I'm so glad you believe me.”

“Don't push it, Nathan. I will dump your ass on the side of the road so fast.” She scowls, but her eyes stay on the road. “I have plenty of reasons why I can't just take your word for it.”

He hates this. He hates that he gets no credit for telling the truth. Why even bother? Max will never change her mind about him. No one ever does. The more they know about him the more they want to leave. Even Victoria will leave him. The day will come when the fit he throws is too big, when she realizes he's clinging too hard to their friendship. He'll fear too strongly the notion that she doesn't like him anymore, like that day she took too long to text him back and he thought his entire friendship with her had just been a joke on her part all along. And it will make her realize that he cares about her way too much. And it will creep her out. And she'll leave. She'll leave.

“This is how things work, unfortunately. So quit sulking.” Max's voice is authoritative, an adult speaking to a child. “You be a good person, you tell me the truth and don't threaten to cut me, and then eventually, maybe you earn my trust. It's a process, one that I find insulting that you're trying to rush.”

Embarrassment and shame flood through him. She has no right to talk to him like a child. Like his father talks to him. Like Jefferson. Like everyone. “Stop infantilizing me. I get it. You're right.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, words too hard to make him feel any better. “I shouldn't have talked down to you. But...”

“But I deserve it.”

“Nathan...” There it is again, his name in her mouth like he's a little kid who doesn't know how ridiculous he's being.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay? But I'm not exactly used to people sticking around long enough to even hear an apology. Sue me for feeling like I don't have enough time to convince you I'm on your side. Sorry if I'm _rushing it_ too much.” He knows he's being unfair. He knows Max can't possibly know any of this. He can't quite grasp exactly which part of his feelings is unfair, and he's too uneasy to figure it out.

Max is quiet for a long time and then, “I... understand. I think.”

Her words are so forced that he wants to jump out of the car and hopefully manage to get himself caught under the tires. She doesn't care. Why should she care? She's just putting up with him because she finds him pathetic, which he is. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and tries to remember that wanting to throw himself from a car because he feels humiliated is not a _normal_ response. He digs his fingernails into his forearm to quell the urge to open the passenger side door while the car is still moving. Max is going a generous forty-five miles per hour down the dirt road. His breath is heavy and pleasant in his lungs and he tries to focus on that instead of the overwhelming sensation that coats his whole body, telling him to curl up in a hole and die. 

Victoria is better off without him. Max doesn't need him and it doesn't matter if he dies. Max doesn't need him, that's what she had said before they left the bunker.

Max doesn't need him. Yet... she's bringing him along. That means something. She's giving him a chance. She doesn't have to be. 

He releases his grip on his own arm and knows without looking that the skin is red and angry. The sensation of shame dwindles from overwhelming to embarrassing. And he feels like he can breathe again.

He should give Max more credit. She's trying to accommodate him. Even if it's hell to be handled. Of course she has to treat him like this. She barely knows him. He should give her more credit. She's doing more than she has to. More than most people.

“Thanks... for letting me hang with you tonight,” he says, eventually, when he gets the courage. He immediately regrets saying anything, but it's too late to turn back. “I don't know what I would have done if you'd left me in that bunker.”

The words themselves are casually phrased, ambiguous, but the way his voice cracks is all too telling. And Max is too smart.

“I told you, when I saved Chloe's dad and it changed everything, I woke up on campus as a member of the Vortex Club.” She puts the turn signal on to turn into the first paved road with streetlights. There aren't any other cars around, it's too late at night. “Of course I was freaking out at the bogus timeline shift. You and Victoria sent me like, a million concerned texts. It was hella weird.”

Nathan just snorts softly. Did Max scold him constantly for his ill behavior in that timeline too? Maybe that Nathan became a better person because of it. Certainly he couldn't imagine thinking it was okay to go along with Jefferson's _work_ if Max was there to be a good influence. 

“Can't imagine being willing to work with Jefferson as long as I did if you were there to shove your feminist theory down my throat constantly.”

Max actually laughs. There's a long moment of silence before she sobers and says, “Chloe can throw a pretty mean fit herself. I'm used to that. But you need to lay off the entitlement.”

He should be insulted, but he just finds what she said reassuring. “Okay, whatever.” He's smiling, but she's too busy driving to see it.

 

* * *

 

Max shuts the SUV's engine off in Blackwell's parking lot, after the worst parking job he's ever seen. 

“Should we go in separately?” she asks, leaning back in the driver's seat and staring at him through the dim light of the streetlights lining the area. 

Nathan snorts. “You think this is the first time a guy has snuck a girl into their dorms?”

“No.”

“We'll be fine. Who's gonna catch us? David Madsen?” Maybe he should be insulted that Max, who should in every respect be in a big hurry, is hesitating because she doesn't want to be seen with him. “You have your spooky time travel power, right? What the hell are you worried about?”

“No offense, but I'd be mortified if someone saw us sneaking into the dorms together, rewind power or not.” Max scrubs her eyes and sighs. “But you're right, let's go.”

He should definitely be insulted, and maybe he would be if he was interested in girls at all, but as he hops out of the car all he can feel is amusement at how easily embarrassed Caulfield is. Victoria would love to hear about this—well, barring the actual context of the whole situation... 

Too bad he would never be able to convince Max to swing by Vic's dorm and bring her along for the adventure. Wait, bad idea actually, since he has no idea how she will react to the whole thing about him reluctantly helping Mark Jefferson abduct classmates. Still, he would like to check on her to see how she's doing. He already texted her multiple times ensuring that she made it back to her dorm safely after the party. Not that it mattered, considering Nathan already handled the biggest threat to Victoria's safety by distracting Mark with Max.

Does Max know that he's the reason Mark kidnapped her—the reason Chloe was murdered tonight? He should probably talk to her about it.

They're halfway across the grounds to the dorms, walking side by side through the dark, with too much space between them to suggest friendship. The ground is littered with remnants of the party, cans and bottles and trash. He almost feels sorry for Samuel, but then he remembers that guy was a dick to Victoria that time, and doesn't feel so bad.

“Uh, hey, Max.” He closes the distance a bit so that she can hear him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Just for full disclosures sake, I kinda, mighta accidentally sicked Mark—er, Jefferson, on you tonight.” She throws him a sideways glance and waits for him to explain. “I told him you two broke into my room, that you were both nosey and too suspicious and that you stole my second cell.”

Max is quiet for a long moment in which he's too afraid to chance a glance at her expression. He expects a slap, or maybe another set of scratches—because he is admitting to being the catalyst for her best friend's death.

Shit. He shouldn't have told her. He's going to be bombarded with accusations like, _why did you do that if you don't want anyone to get hurt? You've been lying to me all night, haven't you? It doesn't make any sense that you would help him any more than necessary! Liar, liar, liar, liar._

Eventually she says, voice quiet, “You told him so that he would think it was too dangerous to go after Victoria tonight, with Chloe and I watching.”

It's... not a question. 

She...

She knows? How?

“Y-yeah,” he chokes, disbelief evident in his voice. Tears sting his eyes and he has no idea why. “I didn't think he'd act right away. Or that he would act at all. I just thought he'd think you were a couple of nosey assholes who only suspected me because of Kate's video.”

“But mostly you knew it would spare Victoria, who was his target tonight.”

“Yeah, but—what the hell? How do you know? Did you use your time travel bullshit or something—“ Maybe she accused him of being a liar the first time around, maybe he threw a fit and shouted the truth at her, maybe she believed him then, and maybe she went back to handle him differently. What the hell...

Max laughs. “No, no rewind powers, I swear.” He must be glaring at her suspiciously because she continues, “It was one of the theories I came up with while I was tied up in the bunker. Seemed obvious that you wouldn't want anything bad to happen to Victoria. It's obvious you care about her.”

Nathan doesn't know how to respond.

“Before I knew that Jefferson was involved, I thought you had just been faking your friendship with her, that she was just your next victim. I realize how stupid that was, now.” She hesitates on the stairs to the dorm's entrance. “I'm... sorry, Nathan. I know Victoria and I aren't friends—she's made that clear—but I'm grateful that you protected her. And Chloe. Even though you should have just fucking gone to the police—I mean, if I didn't have this crazy rewind power... Chloe would be dead. For real. Kate too, probably.”

The police, the police, Max doesn't know just how much he couldn't have gone to the police. The whole situation made him feel like he was ten again, watching his dad hit his sister in the middle of an argument. Calling the police yesterday seemed as impossible as it had when he was ten, watching his sister cry and nurse a red mark they both knew wouldn't leave the kind of bruise that made people believe that something bad was happening at home. He realizes now that in both situations the answer was to report what was going on—that he could live through the aftermath, their family being torn apart, having no dad instead of a sometimes-nice-and-loving dad. He knows from experience that it's a lot harder to live with what he let happen.

The answer is so simple in hindsight: call the fucking police. But he knows it felt impossible just twenty-four hours ago. It felt so impossible that it was impossible.

“I wish I had just gone to the police, Max.” It suddenly feels eerie to be whispering on the front steps of the dorm in the middle of the night. Everyone is probably passed out from the party, but it still feels like someone might overhear. “I wish I knew the right words to tell you, so that you could go back and convince me to go to the police.”

“I wish I knew too, Nathan. But I'm glad Victoria was the last straw for you. I'm glad _something_ was more important to you than how afraid you were.”

It should have been Rachel, and they both know it.


	4. breakfast club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading this! If you like it, please comment to let me know. Criticism is always welcome as well.
> 
> TW: Disassociation, homophobic slurs, ableist slurs, mention of suicide, mention of manipulation, mention of self-harm, mention of body-image issues. As well as mentions of canon-typical violence and subject matter.

The staircase inside the dorms is littered with unconscious students who were likely ushered out of the school barely coherent. Max studies them with distaste but doesn't say anything.

The sight of them makes Nathan feel sick. Is he always so high and drunk that he never notices just how many students are totally wasted after every party? The number of students too wasted to make it back to their dorms outweighs the amount of drugs and drink that could have been on campus that night.

He would know, considering he's usually one of the only people that can hook anyone up with the good stuff. And he never even made it to the party last night.

Is it possible that Mark snuck drugs into the party? He was usually the one on Blackwell's staff who chaperoned the events. But how…?

"After you," Max says, pulling open the door to his floor.

The halls are eerily quiet—no late night video game sessions muffled behind doors. Even Hayden's room is quiet, though it's likely packed with sleeping bodies. As usual. Eh.

"This is your work?" Max deadpans when they reach the space between his and Graham's room. It takes Nathan a second to realize she's referring to the poster on Warren's door, annoyance draped in her features.

The sign is a defaced picture of Warren. It reads: warning beta phag alert.

"No," he says, though he doesn't mention that while the poster isn't his doing, he did add to it with the little sad emoji sticker. "That's been there for days. I think one of his _bros_ made it as a joke. He leaves it up. Probably thinks it's hilarious."

Max fixes him with a look that says _sure, Nathan, I totally believe you_.

Now he's annoyed. "Does _phag_ really seem like the kind of insult I would use? Please." He scoffs. "I'm constantly hearing dude-bros like Warren use that word all the time—to insult each other both venomously and affectionately."

Max frowns like she's remembering something. "Affectionately?"

"Hetero guys like to joke about being gay all the time with their straight friends. Like it makes them allies or something—oh hey look, we're not afraid to be mistaken for your kind! How trendy! How accepting! We're just a joke to them."

Max's frown pulls deeper, and for a second he regrets his little tangent, but it's not like he has anyone else to talk to about this. Not even Victoria. Max is the only one besides Kris who even knows he's gay and thus knows that he has a right to be irked by the antics of straight boys—god, it's refreshing to rant to an actual person. But he's pathetic.

Max sways in place a bit, posture bad and awkward, but not quite as bad as his. She digs the toe of her shoe into the floor and doesn't meet his eyes. "Yeah, I see that a lot. Especially online. In games."

Video games just remind him of how much he doesn't have in common with other boys his age. At least Hayden likes to laugh at his feeble attempts to play xbox with him. Someone like Warren, whose life seems to revolve around the stuff, probably wouldn't even give Nathan the time of day. Not that he cares.

Max looks at him, unsure. "So, what, do we just knock or…?" 

"You're the plan girl," Nathan replies, amused at her hesitation. "Do we have an option other than knocking? Were you considering sneaking in while he's asleep—oh, I bet he'd love that."

Max goes red and uncomfortable. She must not like the variety of attention Warren gives her. The guy follows her around like a puppy, which is funny because Max looks like a lost puppy herself shuffling around between classes. Victoria's made endless comments about how she should adopt Max just to give her a purpose. He thinks Vic means to be belittling, but honestly she kinda comes across as smitten.

"I don't know, I guess I should knock, but how do I ask him for the photo? He probably wants to keep it…"

"Maybe he'll be flattered that you want it," Nathan muses.

"Yeah because," Max makes a disgruntled noise, "it's not weird at all to show up at four in the morning and ask for a photo of us."

Is she worried he'll think she's leading him on? Eh…

Before he gets a chance to inquire, Warren's door opens, and Warren stands there, bleary and confused, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. He doesn't seem at all embarrassed that he's standing there in only a tee-shirt and boxer-briefs.

"What's going on?" Warren groans, voice still sleep-slurred. "I heard voices."

Max seems to be at a loss for words, making tiny, incomprehensible noises as her thoughts likely fumble over what to say to explain why she's standing in the hall with Nathan Prescott. Nathan tries to hide his amusement.

"…Max?" Warren asks, confusion evident as he looks between his friend and Nathan, taking in their proximity and probably how odd it is to see them in the same breathing space. "What's…?"

Warren's eyes narrow at Nathan, and Nathan almost flinches away, yesterday afternoon still tender on his bruised face, but then something flashes across Warren's features—distrust? Directed at Max, not him.

And… there it is. The self-pity clear in Warren's posture. Defeat. Warren thinks he put two and two together. _Max_ plus _Nathan_ plus _in the boy's dorms together_ equals some weird, illicit romance. It doesn't help that Nathan's room is three feet away and Max is visibly embarrassed.  
Distaste seeps into Warren's self-pity; a bruised ego. And Max called Nathan entitled? Bah. What a joke.

Nathan opens his mouth to fire off a few choice words about how low it is to be friends with someone solely out of desire for a relationship, and how people, how Max, deserves to be treated like she's more than what she can offer romantically—but Max speaks before he gets the chance.

"Uh, hey Warren, can we come in? I wanted to ask you something."

No _I swear this isn't what it looks like_. Well, good for Max. No use humoring insecurities Warren won't speak aloud. Why do guys just expect people to understand their intentions, and get upset when those intentions aren't returned? At least guys like Hayden are clear about what they want and who they want it from.

"I… yeah, Max, sure." Warren steps back and opens his door wider in invitation. "Anytime. Anything you need, no questions asked. But an explanation for this week's weirdness would be nice…"

Nathan follows Max into the room, struck by how much trust the guy must have in Max, if he's willing to let Nathan in simply on the basis that Max asked. He sure does jump when Max says jump…

…Kinda like him with Victoria. Nathan doesn't think he could ever say no to her. Could a guy like Warren ever be satisfied with something that would never lead to a relationship? If not, that's a shame. Some people let greed get in the way of a good thing. Not everyone is lucky enough to have friends at all, let alone devoted ones. What's the point of having friends if you don't fucking cherish them?Though, why Warren can't tell that Max's embarrassment is the frustrated sort born out of awkwardness and not attraction, Nathan doesn't know.

"Have a seat," Warren offers, shutting the door behind them. The invitation feels like it's exclusively for Max, who plops down on the edge of his unmade bed, bouncing slightly with the impact. She must be exhausted.

Nathan leans against the door frame because the walls are slathered with posters of all varieties, like wall-paper is out of fashion. He eyes the slight clutter, the large many-buttoned mouse and odd, glowing keyboard, the stacks of graphic novels and the bedspread with a cartoon character of some sort on it. It's a lot to take in.

Warren, in an obvious show of respect for Max's personal space (which he probably pats himself on the back for), sits in his computer chair instead of on the bed next to Max, and wheels it over to a conversational distance.

"Sorry my lair's a mess," Warren says, sounding more embarrassed about the clutter than the fact that he's still in boxer-briefs… or that he just used the word _lair_.

"No worries," Max assures. "This is nothing compared to how mine can get."

"You should show me sometime," Warren blurts. "Your room, I mean, not the clutter. I bet you have a sweet computer setup."

Nathan has to bury his face in his hands to hide his second-hand embarrassment. It's like watching a turtle try to flirt with a rock.

"Nah, I only have my laptop. It can barely run WoW."

Nathan has no idea what they're talking about and he can see that Max is stalling with small talk, probably deciding in her head how much truth she wants to tell Warren.

"Really? That's amazing considering you're the best tank I've ever raided with."

"Ha. Thanks for saying so, but there's no way that's true. I get like 20 fps."

Nathan's sigh sounds more like a growl than he means for it to. "Don't let me cut your little play-date short, Max, but can we please get to the point?" He almost says we don't have time for this, but then he remembers that Max actually does have time, a lot of it.

Warren looks like he's going to instinctually jump to Max's defense for the umpteenth time, but holds his tongue, probably out of his own curiosity for why Max brought Nathan to his room in the middle of the night.

"Right," Max takes an audibly deep breath, eyes suddenly intense. All business. "Warren, please tell me you have that picture you took of us at the party earlier."

"I do…" he says, like it's the last thing in the world he expected her to ask about. He makes no move to retrieve it. "Why?"

"I need it."

Gee, Max, how persuasive.

"…Why?"

"Because…" she's clearly at a loss and Nathan doesn't blame her, really. Even without mentioning her weird magician powers, the reality of what's been going on at school is a lot to explain. "Because…"

"Because she needs it to travel back in time to the party," Nathan offers, grinning at the dirty look Max shoots him.

"What!" Warren gasps, leaning forward, literally on the edge of his seat with interest. "Really? You actually have time travel powers?"

Wait… he… actually believes it? That easily? Nathan mostly said it to get under Max's skin, assuming Warren would take it as a joke. But he actually…

"Max?" She doesn't reply, Warren doesn't give her a chance. "I knew it! I knew there was something weird going on with you!"

And Warren, what, assumed time travel? What the fuck. Nathan smacks himself in the head at the stupidity of it all, a gesture of exasperation. He cringes when the bruises on his face burst with pain. Ow. He forgot about those.

Warren glances at him out of the corner of his eye, looking vaguely guilty.

Feh. Nathan doesn't want his pity. He… probably shouldn't complain about the beating anyway. Warren's black eye from the parking lot confrontation is still blooming in purples across his face. It's not really the pain inflicted that he's upset about, anyway—it's that they made it harder for him to protect Victoria last night. 

But Max was trying to protect Victoria then too. Max said she warned Vic last night. Except she warned her about the wrong person.

Things would have been different if he had been working with Max all along.

"Will you believe me if I say I can rewind time?" Max asks, weary.

"Of course!" Warren's energy is too overbearing for someone who just woke up and is probably hung over. "I told you, Max, after this week I'd believe anything! And hey—were there really two moons earlier or was I just drunk off my ass?"

"Oh, you were drunk alright," Max smiles, it's a genuine thing and Nathan suddenly feels like an intruder. "But there definitely were two moons."

"Something to do with your powers?"

"I think so—probably the freak weather too."

"And the dead animals? So that's why you asked me for all those sci-fi time travel fiction recs!"

Their conversation dissolves into excitable discussion about time travel and theories for why she's fucking up the ecosystem with her magic. Nathan just feels sick. He can't believe how cruel he was to them in the parking lot that day.

Nathan has no right to be here.

The evidence of his personality disorder is clear, speckled throughout his entire life so thoroughly that when a psychiatrist finally suggested it, the label felt like his own skin. It was relief and terror all at once.

He tries to remind himself about his diagnosis' presence, about cortisol, increased sensitivity to the facial expressions and the inferred thoughts of others, intense emotional responses one hundred times stronger than that of a person who isn't like him. A prefrontal cortex that struggles to regulate impulses. An intense and inappropriately triggered fight or flight response.

That day in Blackwell's parking lot he fought. Physically. For the first time ever. He's only ever thrown things before, and not even in the vicinity of other people. He's threatened his own life, sure, but never anyone else's, not directly… he'd never even wanted to. What was wrong with him that day?

It started with the usual passive aggressive texts from his dad. Being pulled aside and scolded by Mark Jefferson three times that day. Chloe Price, threatening to to tell everyone he drugged her. Which would tie him too strongly to the murder of Rachel Amber, and the abductions of all those girls he's never even met. Jefferson would probably kill him, make it look like a suicide, and lord knows the files in his many psychiatrists' offices would back that up.

And then Max Caulfield makes presumptions about him without actually knowing anything about him. Without caring to know the truth. Like everyone. Like his teachers. Like his family.

He cries in elementary school over a small slight? Attention-seeking. Not validly hurt. It never even crosses anyone's mind that he's validly hurt. He grabs a knife from the dinner table at eleven years old and holds it to his own neck because his dad is implying with every sentence that he's worthless, only to tell Nathan he shouldn't take it that way? Manipulative. Not a person overwhelmed and hurting. No. Manipulative. Manipulative because everyone else perceives it so.

Why is it that everyone he's ever met would rather dismiss his feelings or attribute them to negative motivations like frivolous attention-seeking and evil, premeditated manipulation so that what he's feeling is rendered invalid by association? Why do that instead of admit, or even consider that his feelings are real and exist, no matter how unsightly or inappropriate?

Why has no one ever cared enough to even consider?

Even Victoria would shy away from him in distaste if she ever saw that side of him. He's sure of it.

Max has no reason to be considerate of him. She had no reason to consider his feelings that day in the parking lot. She's not his friend. She's not his family. It was in all rights justified for her to be presumptuous about what kind of guy he was, based on first impressions alone.

Max did nothing wrong. But he lashed out anyway. He actually grabbed her and pushed her hard enough for her to stumble backwards. And he punched Warren again and again and it all happened so fast and he's never felt so disgusted with himself.

They both seem like such sickeningly sweet people, talking animatedly about time travel at four in the morning, and Nathan wants to throw up because he hurt them.

It could have been worse. It always could have been worse. He's so thankful that it wasn't worse. He knows it easily could have been. Just like his many suicide attempts could have been worse. It's so fucking scary to look back and know he was capable of more than what happened, especially when more is something he's horrified by when he stops escalating and calms down.

Nathan closes his eyes and tries to take some comfort in the fact that the two dorks are mostly unscathed from his actions, that it could have been worse, but it wasn't, and that is worth committing to memory—so that maybe next time he'll remember that he doesn't want worse.

Right now he's doing a good job at playing wall-flower and staying out of their conversation, which is good because his hands are shaking so hard he has to shove them in his pockets.

When he chances a glance away from the floor and at his two classmates, Max is staring at him.

"What?" he asks, accidentally snapping the word because of the anxiety and guilt flooding his system.

"What's wrong?" Max asks, glancing down at his foot, which is tapping nervously.

"Nothing."

Max raises a dubious eyebrow, and Warren swivels in his chair slightly to shift his attention to Nathan fully for the first time.

"I—fine, I…" _I'm thinking about how I'm a creep who doesn't deserve to be here and you're both idiots for not running for your lives._ The words catch in his throat. Less abrasive, he needs to be less abrasive. "I was thinking about what happened. In the parking lot. I'm… sorry."

After a moment of consideration, Max simply snorts in response, shaking her head as if she doesn't know what to make of him. Nathan doesn't know what to make of Max. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Is that why he's here?" Warren asks Max. He hasn't addressed Nathan once. "To apologize?"

"Nah. I don't really care about that right now."

"Come to think of it," Warren frowns, bringing his fingers to his lips in thought. "Why did Nathan Prescott get to know about your powers before your best friend Warren."

The _best friend_ part is clearly a joke, which Max responds to with a sly look. But all her amusement drains quickly with the answer to Warren's question.

"That's actually a long story."

"Give me the abridged version?" Warren pouts, probably for fear that he'll be left out again. "Pretty please?"

Max inhales deeply. "I was looking into Rachel Amber's disappearance with Chloe—"

"Is that why you needed that bomb—"

"Yes. I blew open the principal’s office, walked in, and rewound time to before the explosion—not important."

"Whoa!"

"Not important, Warren. You were a big help though. Anyway, we heavily suspected Nathan, especially since he was involved in that fiasco with Kate. Long story short, it wasn't Nathan, it was Mr. Jefferson."

"Wait—what was Mr. Jefferson?" Warren's face is tangled with confusion, mind racing to grasp what Max is implying.

"Abridged version? He kidnaps and drugs girls and takes pictures of them tied up, to sell I think. He did it to Rachel and Kate and a ton of other girls. Rachel Amber is dead. We found her body in the junkyard. We think he overdosed her because she woke up during the… photoshoot."

"Are you serious?" Warren chokes out, disbelief cold and hard in his features. Warren fidgets uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do with his trembling hands. Eventually he settles for covering his mouth and breathing a shaky breath into them.

"I wish it wasn't true. But believe me, I would never lie about this, Warren."

"I know," Warren assures, voice strained. He buries his face the rest of the way into his hands, his shoulders are shaking. It takes hearing a harsh shuddering breath—an unmistakable sob, for Nathan to realize that Warren is crying.

Nathan's gut twists and his chest clenches and he feels so fucking responsible for all of this.

Max freezes, meeting Nathan's eyes for one helpless moment before she rushes to Warren's side, hesitating only momentarily before curling an arm around his shoulders.

The contact seems to prompt Warren into action—he sits up straighter and pulls his hands away from his face to gesture angrily. "Why? Why do that to someone? I mean, I _know_ why, but I never understood why people were into that shit."

Nathan doesn't miss the relief that crosses Max's face.

"What about," Warren's still visibly shaken, unable to form a sentence properly, "What about… Alyssa? Brooke? Stella? God…" He can barely say their names. His sobs come stronger now, and he doubles over to hide his face and his hands again, like he's trying to hide his tears, trying to hide from the answer to his question.

"No, not Alyssa or Brooke or Stella. He hadn't gotten to them yet. We stopped him. He's not ever going to do this again, I'm going to make sure of it."

Warren just looks up at Max and nods, before burying his face against her neck and letting her hold him.

Nathan is ashamed of how surprised he is by Warren's reaction. Of course people who weren't directly affected would care. Of course people would be horrified at the thought that something like this could have happened to their friends. Of course they're horrified like he was horrified when Mark wanted Victoria next.

It showcases too clearly how much he didn't care—how much he was too busy placing the value of his own safety above Kate's to refuse Mark's order to bring her to the dark room. He's deplorable. Absolutely deplorable. He'll never do that again. Ever. He'll never be that selfish again.

Nathan bites his lip hard, trying to will away the tears that sting his eyes. It's hard to look at a sobbing Warren and a misty-eyed Max, so he studies the rumpled cartoon bedspread instead.

"Nathan..." Max says eventually, and Nathan glances over in time to see them pulling away from each other, Warren rubbing the tears from his face. "Nathan saved me, actually. If it wasn't for him I would probably be dead right now."

Warren looks at Nathan like he's seeing him for the first time.

"She's putting that nicely," Nathan spits, "because she feels sorry for me. What she isn't telling you is that I was only around to save her because I was helping Jefferson in the fucking first place."

There's no anger from Warren, no instant march across the room to punch Nathan in the face. Why isn't Warren angry? Instead, Warren looks to Max for an explanation.

"Jefferson tried to make Nathan his sidekick. Nathan agreed until he actually participated, and then it seems like he tried to nope out of there pretty fast—but he was afraid Jefferson would hurt him if he didn't go along with it."

"And he couldn't tattle because it would ruin his family's precious reputation?" Warren guesses.

"Yep."

Warren turns to Nathan, cautious but… oddly calm. "You've seemed really stressed out lately, Prescott."

Nathan almost laughs. "No fucking kidding." For the first time since he entered the other boy's room, he relaxes a little.

"To be honest," Warren starts, hesitantly. "There were a few times, before you went to town on my face with your fist, that I considered asking you what was wrong, or if you needed help."

Max raises an eyebrow.

"But I figured you would just tell me to fuck off, or ridicule me or something…"

Nathan honestly doesn't know. No one has ever tried to reach out to him like that, not someone who wasn't already his friend. He wouldn't have believed for a second that Warren's intentions were pure. "I probably would have been hostile."

"I've been giving Nathan the benefit of the doubt, big time, and he still hasn't stopped being hostile to me," Max chips in, almost smugly.

"I have trust issues, okay?" Nathan hisses, to which Max gestures at his response as if it proves her point. It does. "For some reason I expect people to hate me before they even meet me—crazy concept, I know."

Except it's not. Because people always do hate him. Because of his family or his unstable reputation, he doesn't know. Probably both. It doesn't matter.

“Well, we don't hate you now,” Max says, so easily that Nathan is taken aback. And that's it. No witty follow up, no _but that doesn't mean we like you_. Just reassurance with no price-tag. 

“Yeah, I actually wanted to apologize for earlier,” Warren says, raking his fingers through his hair and avoiding Nathan's eyes. “I'm glad Max pulled me off of you. I'm not proud of how I acted.”

They're talking to him like he's a real person and it's uncomfortable and embarrassing and Nathan can barely reply. “I get it.”

“It honestly wasn't just about you, I kinda a lot of pent up frustration at people like me and Max getting pushed around so much. You know?”

He knows. He absolutely knows. Nathan nods, unable to speak. He's sure his face is burning. 

How many times has he unsuccessfully tried to cultivate this kind of back and fourth conversation, how many times has he scrambled desperately towards trying to reach a mutual understanding about a bad experience? It feels like he's been trying to have conversations like this his entire life, but they never work. Why is this working now? Is he different? Or are they?

The silence is not as uncomfortable as Nathan expects, but his body feels unreal, like it's not his, like he's not here taking up space in Warren Graham's room, like none of this is actually happening and he's going to wake up and things are going to be terrible again.

“Oh!” Warren perks up suddenly, practically tripping out of his chair to go rummage through his closet. “Sorry, but something's been bothering me since you two showed up here.”

Nathan watches Warren with mild interest as he emerges from his closet with a tool box, which he sets on his desk. Max seems to recognize the box, because she sighs and rolls her eyes. She's smiling though. 

“Do you always have to be such a boyscout?” Max asks.

“Oh, hush,” Warren replies, pulling a tube of... something from the box. And a band-aid. Definitely a band-aid. 

Nathan has a bad feeling about this—he tenses and considers bolting from the room. Sure enough, Warren fixes all his attention on him, pointing to the desk chair. 

“Sit.”

Nathan crosses his arms and tries his best to look like he has no intention to move.

“Don't make me come over there,” Warren says, a smile in his voice despite his authoritative demeanor.

“Seriously,” Max says, “Just let Warren have his way. It's quicker.” 

Nathan frowns. 

“You should have seen him when I got a tiny shard of glass in my finger. Dr. Graham had tweezers and band-aids in his pocket.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm an overly prepared weirdo,” Warren says, and then waves Nathan over again, “Now c'mon, and let Dr. Warren fix you up. I'm a professional, I swear.”

Hesitantly, because not going along with this will probably be more taxing than just doing as the others wish, Nathan shuffles over and sits in the offered chair. Warren beams.

Seemingly satisfied that the boy's attentions are diverted from her, Max falls back on Warren's bed and slings an arm over her eyes. She must be exhausted. She must also be stalling, because she's not demanding that Warren hand over the picture, she doesn't seem at all eager to travel back and change the night's events. Why? It seems like at some point during the night she lost all of her vigor.... is she afraid? Of what?

Warren shuffles in front of him. “Did you wash the cuts already?”

“I splashed water on them,” Nathan grumbles, though truthfully he did use soap. It took some scrubbing to get the dirt and blood off his face. 

“Okay—we're going on field trip to the bathroom then,” Warren says cheerily, tugging on Nathan's sleeve in preparation to usher him out of the room. “For future reference, you should always wash any cut that breaks skin.”

Nathan shrugs him off and slinks further down into the chair, grounding himself. “I washed them already! Geez, if I didn't you'd see the dirt on my face from your fucking shoes.”

Warren's playful expression shifts to a genuinely mournful pout. Nathan hates himself.

Nathan's too flustered to figure out what to say to undo the other boy's melancholy. “Look—it's fine... just, keep going.”

But Warren hesitates on the boundary he overstepped.

Nathan takes a deep breath and, with his best mock apathetic damsel voice, says, “Oh, please, I need a doctor, won't someone help me?”

Warren just stares at him for the longest time before fighting off a smile and getting to work. 

“May I?” Warren asks, looming over Nathan, fingers poised to probe his face. “I wanna check if your nose is broken—mostly for my conscience's sake.”

Broken? Nathan hadn't given that much thought, but the pain and bruising comply with the theory. 

“Suuure,” Nathan draws out the word, trying his best to sound both skeptical and casual, though this feels anything but casual.

When Warren's fingers gently press down both sides of his nose, Nathan can't look away from the boy's methodical expression.

“Seems fine,” Warren breathes a sigh of relief. They are close enough that Nathan feels the breath on his face.

A blush spreads over Nathan's skin, mingling with the reds and purples of minor bruising. There's no way Warren won't notice. Shit.

It doesn't help that Warren is only wearing his underwear and a tee-shirt. Nathan tries very hard not to glance down at the other boy's thighs. Not that he isn't used to seeing the other students walk around half-naked in the dorms. 

Would Nathan himself walk around the dorms barely clothed if he didn't have scars down his thighs and forearms? He can't even imagine what it's like to be that confident in his own skin. But here Warren is, nerd extraordinaire, not even batting an eyelash at appearing half-naked in front of the girl he likes. 

And yeah—girl he likes, _girl_. Not that Nathan is interested at dating any of the pretentious fucks at Blackwell, especially not some nerd who he has nothing in common with. God, what would Victoria say if she saw him blushing under the attention of some nobody? It's pathetic that he swoons over being doted on. Maybe he should just accept that it's who he is—he's a huge sap for people who show him kindness. Even his platonic relationships make him weak in the knees. He doesn't think it's normal to love his friends like family.

He doesn't think it's normal to be so touched over Warren and Max's tentative trust, either.

“It appears you've just got a minor abrasion on your nose,” Warren's eyelashes are thick and pretty as he squeezes a bead of antibiotic ointment onto his finger. Nathan has to look away. “Other than that, just bruising and a little swelling—you should probably take ibuprofen for that.”

Nathan fidgets, legs restless. “You gonna fill my prescription too?”

“I have ibuprofen in my first-aid kit, if that's what you mean.” Warren dabs the ointment onto Nathan's cut. It's cold and it tickles. “I have a band-aid for this too, if it's not too uncool for you.”

“You tell me.”

“I think you'll look fine.” He's smiling like something's funny. “So, band-aid?”

“Do what you want.”

Warren unwraps a small band-aid, lines it up with the red, ointment-slick slit running across the bridge of Nathan's nose, and flattens it down with his fingers.

“Ta-da, all better.” Warren beams. “Now I can rest easy, knowing I've literally put a bandage on that fiasco of a mistake I made earlier.”

Nathan looks up at the other boy, studying his cheerful face with a somber expression. “Is there anywhere I can put a band-aid on you?”

Warren laughs. “Uh, I wasn't really bleeding all that much. Just scraped up a little from falling on the concrete. Mostly what I needed after that were some hugs and high-fives for getting into my first school-yard brawl.”

“Ah.” Nathan crosses his arms around himself, feeling awkward. Talking to Warren and Max has none of the ease that hanging with Victoria or Hayden has.

“Aw, come on,” Warren pats Nathan on the shoulder in a friendly, coaxing way that Nathan only tenses under. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I condenser us even. Right? We're even?”

Nathan shrugs. He certainly doesn't feel like they're even. Maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe it's wrong that he feels like he deserves a lot worse than the beating Warren gave him.

Warren tilts his head, shuffling slightly to catch Nathan's avoidant gaze. “Hm? I understand if you don't forgive me after my feeble attempt to literally and figuratively patch things up... shoot, did I screw up?”

Nathan's laugh is harsh and angry, “It's not you, it's me. What I did was so much worse. You were just trying to protect your friend.”

“Hey,” Warren puts a firm hand on Nathan's shoulder when his attempts to catch Nathan's eyes are stubbornly averted. “It's clear we both don't feel right about what we did. As long as nothing like this happens again, I don't see why we can't be friends. We're right across the hall from each other, after all—you should come over for one of my famous bad movie nights sometime.”

Wow. Does Warren always get so ahead of himself when it comes to fostering friendships? Nathan narrows his eyes and checks for signs of dishonesty in Warren's features, but Graham is as genuine as he always is. What is it with people like Warren and Max? It's like they don't worry at all about what other people think of them. It's so different from the world Nathan lives in with Victoria and the rest of the Vortex Club.

Nathan groans and rubs his eyes. He feels like he hasn't slept in weeks. He basically hasn't. “You're forgetting something, Graham—“

“Please don't say something archaic like _nerds and popular kids can't be friends_ —haven't you ever seen the Breakfast Club?”

“No—well, yes, but that isn't what I was going to say.” He jerks his head towards Max, who may very well be asleep on Warren's bed. “You're forgetting that Princess Time Travel over there is going to fix this shitty week, and we won't remember any of this.”

“Oh,” is all Warren says. Nathan has never seen the boy look so defeated.


	5. complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to everyone who commented. You really keep me going ;o;
> 
> This is kinda an in-between chapter so sorry in advance!!
> 
> I don't think this one has any notable trigger warnings. Maybe ableist slurs and casual reference to suicidal thoughts.

Sure enough, when Warren hands her the photograph, the image wavers and beckons. So it works after all. She had been afraid that she would have to tear through her photo albums, the discarded Polaroids shoved into desk drawers, trying to find one picture, any picture, that would take her back to sometime before Chloe was taken away from her again.

But this photo works. This photo works. Time to go back to the party and consult with Chloe about what the hell to do. What the hell can she do? Avoid the night's events, that's for sure. But what then? Should she appeal to Nathan when she travels back? Try to join forces with him all over again?

The boy in question is swiveling idly in Warren's computer chair, watching the way she holds the photograph like it's a family heirloom.

"Quit stalling and get it over with," Nathan holds her gaze, almost challenging. The band-aid on his face is ridiculous.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Warren scrambles over to sit beside her. "What will happen to us? Do you disappear, and we just keep existing without you? Or is it like.. your consciousness leaps timelines? Are there multiple realities or does using your power just erase and rewrite a single reality? Man, I should have read more about string theory instead of playing all those video games…"

"Uh. Like I said, I really don't know."

"Will we just blink out of existence when you change things?"

Max doesn't miss the way Warren's words twist Nathan's expression up into the most unreadable thing. Fear? Wonder? Something else…

"Whoa, Warren, I am _so_ not ready to ponder the morality of using my power."

"Yeah, sorry—just, really curious."

"I know you are. But all I'm worried about right now is saving Chloe."

At that, Nathan looks close to tears, or panic, or both.

Max doesn't know what the hell goes on in Nathan's head, but she doesn't like him looking so upset. No schadenfreude for her.

"Don't worry, Nathan, I'm going to find some way to get you on my side again." Even as she says it, she knows how impossible it seems. Especially when it took such extreme circumstances to bring them together this time.

Nathan grunts. "Good luck with that. Around the time you two were taking your little selfie, I was at the dorms having a major meltdown over Mark's change of plans."

Well, that has to be useful information. "Do tell."

" _It's simple,_ " Nathan says in a mock impression of Jefferson. " _We don't have to sit around wondering how much they know, just give me your phone and I'll send them a message. If they show up at the junkyard, they know._ "

"So it wasn't you who texted Chloe about destroying the evidence?"

"Nope." He crosses his arms over his chest. After a long moment he says, "I went to the junkyard right after he left. Tried to leave a warning for you. Didn't know what else to do. He took my phone, and you had my burner. Couldn't show up at the party without raising suspicions."

"It's okay Nathan, you… tried."

Nathan rolls his eyes.

"What if Chloe and I went straight to you? What if I told you I believed you, that I want to help you? How would you react?"

"Disbelief—hostility—fear—suicidal tendencies—you name it."

She suspected as much. She sighs and buries her face in her hands. She's definitely got a migraine.

"Gee, it's almost like you can't go around accusing a guy of being a creep only to show up at his doorstep and expect him to believe you're his guardian angel."

The glare Max shoots him is smoldering. "Really, Nathan?"

"Yeah, Nathan, not cool," Warren chimes in, completely unnecessary. "You know how the situation looked to us outsiders."

"Yep! People just looove to tell me how creepy and freakish I seem to all you normal folk." Nathan throws his gaze to the wall, crossing his arms tighter over his chest.

The whole stand off makes Max want to march across the room and get in his face, but that would probably upset him more, possibly even frighten him, so she refrains. 

"Nathan," she says instead, loud and firm enough that she can feel Warren jump beside her. "I am going to fix this, and I am going to make sure things are better for you, whether you like it or not. So please don't fight me over wanting a little insight on how to best do that."

Nathan's jaw tightens but he still refuses to look at her. She swears she can see his breath stop and then start again.

"I've rewound hundreds of times for Chloe, for Kate—hell, I've rewound time to get a better picture of a squirrel. I'm going to get justice for you." She stops to exhale some of her frustration. "I'm not the type of person who likes to see other people suffer—" Nathan looks like he's going to interject so she adds, "And neither are you, not anymore, right? So I'm going to fix this."

Beside her, Warren claps his hands in applause, like she just gave the best award speech ever. She turns beet red.

"Sorry," she mutters, utterly mortified. "I guess I got a little intense there."

"Who would have thought that Max Caulfield has a god complex," Nathan muses, probably trying to be mean but just coming across as entertained.

"Shut up," is all she can muster.

This… this is why she hasn't been telling people about her powers. The attention from Chloe is bad enough. She so is not cut out for the spotlight.

But…

The photo in her lap is still wavering, begging to be leaped through.

She doesn't want to go.

She does want to save Chloe—she _needs_ to save Chloe like she needs to breathe. But she doesn't want to leave this, leave the acceptance Warren and even Nathan are giving her.

"It's so good not feeling alone in this whole mess," she says, quietly, to neither of them in particular. "I mean, Chloe knows about my powers, but she…"

"Keeps dying?" Nathan offers.

Max nods.

For the first time, Max wonders if that means Chloe's death is inevitable—if the timeline will keep correcting itself Final Destination style. Is that why the storm comes? Because Chloe is alive and shouldn't be?

Shit. Max can't think about that. There's no way she could ever let her best friend die—she'd allow the storm to rip the whole town apart before she let anything bad happen to Chloe. She loves Chloe like family, like a sister, like the love of her life. This whole week has only solidified that no matter how long they're apart, no matter what happens, they'll always be there for each other like no time has passed at all.

Would Chloe laugh at her if she called them soul-mates? Ha. She'll have to find out.

"What if… you don't have to do this alone?" Warren asks, sounding like he just came out of a deep thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, why can't we come back with you?"

What? "My power doesn't work that way—"

"Have you tried?"

Nathan perks up in interest, and Max feels suddenly overwhelmed.

"Well, no, but—"

"Why not try then? You said you could bring objects back."

"Yeah, but not through the picture."

"But I'm in the picture," Warren points out.

Yeah, but it's not exactly Warren she needs to cooperate with her when she goes back. "No offense Warren, but even if I could take you back with me, it's not really you I need help from. I could easily just tell you about my powers again."

Warren's hand shoots out go grasp her wrist. "Please tell me you will, please, I want to help you,"

"I know you do, Warren," Max pats his his hand in a way she hopes is reassuring. And friendly. Mostly friendly. "I promise I'll tell you about my powers again when I have time." She catches Nathan's lips quirk and adds, "No pun intended."

"Why don't you try?" Nathan asks, flicking a hand in the direction of Warren's pout. "Might as well humor the nerd. You have god damn time travel powers or whateverthefuck, you might as well use them to their fullest."

"Yeah, but I really don't think they work that way." She sighs. "But you're right, I guess, there's no harm in trying…"

"Yes!" Warren jumps to his feet, pumping his fist in the air. Max has to fight off a smile.

"Settle down, space cowboy," Max grabs him by the sleeve and tugs him back down beside her. "I have no idea if this will even work. So we need to have a back up plan." She turns to Nathan. "What can I do to get you on my side?"

Nathan toes the carpet, swiveling in the chair, considering for a long moment. "Bring Victoria to me."

There is so much certainty in his voice that Max doesn't question it.

"If you bring her to me and tell me you know I want her safe," he explains without prompting, "I'll probably drop to my knees worship the ground you walk on."

Wow. Victoria really must have been his biggest concern that night.

"Precisely how much of what you just said is exaggeration?" she teases, because honestly she might like being treated like a goddess by Arcadia Bay's little prince.

Nathan doesn't laugh like she expects him to. "Knowing me? It's not much of an exaggeration at all. My loyalty comes easily and intensely, and is taken away just as fast."

That's… oddly specific. And intimidating. Now she just feels awkward.

"Okay," she clears her throat. "What about if it does work and I can take you back with me? We'll all be where we were at the time the photo was taken. It's definitely not physical travel—not when it's through the picture. It's like… only my brain goes."

"Well, you two nerds will be together," Nathan points out, "But as for me… I, guess I'll try to make it away from Jefferson with my phone. And then I'll give you call or something and we can meet up."

"Sounds fine to me." God, is she really going to do this? She has no idea what consequences using her powers has in general, let alone what consequences exploring them further will have. Oh well… it's not like she's lost sleep over it yet.

Warren is practically vibrating with excitement. "So, how do you think we should do this?"

"Uh… I honestly don't know, but, I think it would be best if you were both over here." She locks arms with Warren and beckons Nathan with her free hand.

Nathan grimaces in distaste, but after a few shifty glances between them and a second of watching Max wave him over with growing impatience, Nathan stands up and shuffles over to plop down beside her. His knee shakes with nervous energy.

The mattress dips when she slides over to close the distance Nathan left between them. She draws right up next to him, their shoulders knocking, their thighs pressed flush, and drags Warren along with her, pulling him just as close on her opposite side. 

Now that the idea's been planted in her head, she's terrified this won't work. 

It seems so impossible that Nathan is cooperating with her now, she doesn't know if she can recreate that even with a million rewinds. And honestly, she's afraid of the same thing he is—that somehow this will all get pinned on the Prescott heir and not the true culprit, Mark Jefferson. They need to be smart about this, they need to work together. 

Jefferson deserves to burn for what he did.

And most of all, she thinks Nathan needs to know he had the strength to stand up to Jefferson on his own. It's clearly something he thought about for a long time. She can definitely see that his inaction has been eating him up inside for a long time. He needs to remember what it felt like to do the right thing.

"…For objects to come back with me through normal rewind, they have to be touching me—like, in my bag or pockets or hands." Even though she should be proud of her totally bomb powers, she feels silly talking about it.

"Well, you can't put us in your pockets," Nathan says, sounding way too grumpy for someone about to be possibly graced with traveling through time.

"It's going to work, Max, I believe in you." Warren does actually sound like he believes in her. Maybe she can do this. Probably she can't.

"Yeah, yeah," she replies, half-hearted. "Don't believe in myself, believe in you who believes in me… I gotcha."

Warren beams at the reference before shifting their locked arms so that his fingers nudge hers. She takes the hint and laces their fingers together.

"Nathan," she says, and then jerks her head to indicate her and Warren's locked hands.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Nathan says, but obliges, grasping her other hand a little too roughly in his petulance. "Holding hands with Max fucking Caulfield—Ohh, Victoria would love this."

Max snorts. What would Victoria think? Max can't even imagine. Victoria probably wouldn't even be able to grasp the concept that time travel is real—the girl seems so fragile, like just the notion of time travel would shatter her perfect world-view and send her scrambling to shove her fingers in her ears and forget she ever heard the suggestion that things aren't the way she thought they were. And even if she did accept it, she'd probably hate Max for being officially more awesome than her.

"Okay, Max," she breathes, "You can do this, girl."

She doesn't realize she actually said that out loud until Nathan squeezes her hand in response.

Weird. This is weird.

"Hey, uh, Max?" Nathan says, his posture is so bad that he's eye-level with her despite their height difference. It's almost like an adult kneeling to speak to a child. Except not in a way that's condescending… just… nice.

"Yeah?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong—but somehow I don't think saving Price and turning in Jefferson is going to stop that storm."

"What storm—" Warren starts to ask, but Max cuts him off with a look that promises an explanation later.

"You're not wrong, Nathan."

"Any, uh, ideas for how to remedy that?"

God. It really puts into perspective how much she's been scrambling to just get through the week and trying not to think about what will and won't bring the storm.

"The only thing I can think of is some Final Destination bullshit where I have to let Chloe get shot by you in the bathroom. Correct the timeline and all that jazz."

"Not happening," Nathan says, with an odd amount of vigor. She searches his eyes, annoyed that he may be selfish enough to let a tornado destroy a town because he doesn't want to go to jail for manslaughter—but she only has to glance at his expression to see the empathy in his features, the look that says _we both know there's no way you can do that to your friend, Max._

Is she really that much of an open book? "Yeah, agreed. Not happening."

"There has to be some other way," Warren says quietly. "There has to. Man. I wish I had the answer for you this time, Max… I feel like a total science poser right now."

She gives his hand a squeeze. "No, Warren, you've done enough. No one has the answer." She sighs and mulls it over for a moment, wondering if the animals are dying because she's draining their life force or something in exchange for the energy it's taking to use her power. She sure fucking hopes not. "Maybe… Maybe if I just stop using my power."

Nathan's the first to make a noise of protest. "But—"

"After, I mean. After I go back through the photo. If I don't use my powers anymore after that, maybe the storm won't come?" She looks between the two boys for their reactions, but Nathan is staring vacantly at the carpet and Warren just shrugs.

"It's definitely worth a shot," Warren says.

"Okay," she drops her gaze to the photo wavering in her lap. "Okay. Any last words?"

"Just—" Nathan blurts suddenly, "Just, forget about me if you have to. Keep Victoria safe. That's all I care about."

Max catches his eye and nods, and Nathan nods back tentatively, and then she turns her attention back to the picture, and it focuses so fast it's like it was impatient for her departure. She grasps their hands painfully tight, and then…

And then she's back on the pavement outside of Blackwell, the thrum of music muffled through the warm night air.


	6. best friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I meant to get Victoria in this chapter, but it didn't happen. NEXT CHAPTER I swear. (I think.)
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your support. ;_;
> 
> TW: Reference to alcohol, crude humor. I think that's it.

The camera flashes. Warren's arm is slung over her shoulders, her camera in his outstretched hand. He smells like alcohol.

Max's priorities align on auto-pilot.

"Chloe!" she practically shoves Warren out of the way to barrel into her breathing—very breathing, so much breathing—friend. "Chloe, you're alive, you're actually alive."

Chloe lifts her arms to make room for Max's, which are encircling her like a boa constrictor. Chloe looks down at Max like she _is_ a boa constrictor.

"What the hell—don't tell me your nerd boyfriend's so wasted that just standing next to him made you drunk." Chloe is all anger and frustration and impatience, like usual, like Chloe. Her Chloe. "Seriously, Max, what gives? Start fucking talking because we don't have time for this, I have to find that fucker Prescott—"

"I just spend the night with that fucker," Max says, pushing her body impossibly close to Chloe's. Chloe is warm and soft and Max can't shake the images of blue hair crusted with blood.

"The fuck?" Chloe pries Max's arms off and shoves her back roughly by her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. She has to stoop a bit to look Max in the eye. "You're having sex with that creep, Nathan?"

"What! No! Chloe—ew!" She sticks her tongue out and gags in attempt to get the bad taste out of her mouth. "Gross—no!"

"Then the hell are you talking about—oh," Chloe's eyes light up with realization. Her hard expression softens to something more antsy. "Time travel bullshit?"

"Time travel bullshit," Max agrees. "Look, it's a long story, but I already know how this night is going to go, and Chloe, it is _not_ good, so we need to regroup for a second, okay?"

Chloe doesn't look too convinced that calming down and thinking for a moment is the right course of action—because she just saw her… whatever Rachel was to her, buried with the junk of Arcadia bay. Of course she's ready for Nathan's head on a platter.

"Chloe, I just watched you die again."

"Oh," Chloe breathes, the hot coals in her eyes immediately cooling. "Oh." She slides her hands down Max's arms and tugs them back around her waist. Max gladly accepts the invitation and buries her head against Chloe's chest.

She'd let a million tornadoes destroy ten million cities to keep that heartbeat pumping.

"Uh…" comes Warren's tentative and slurred voice beside them. "Oh god, this feels really weird."

Chloe immediately reaches out to bat Warren away. "Shoo, pipsqueak. The adults are talking."

"Chloe," Max chastises, pulling away to look at Warren, who is palming his forehead like he's got the worst headache of his life.

Oh shit. She completely forgot…

"Warren? Did… did it work?" Max almost feels like waving a hand in front of his face to see if he can see her—but duh, of course he can, she has time travel powers, not invisibility.

"Uhh I dunno… you tell me," Warren slurs, staggering in place slightly, like he's going to pass out on the lawn at any moment. "Am I really fucking drunk or were you and Nathan Prescott just in my bed?"

Max lets out the most unceremonious squeal of her life and claps her hands together, probably too much like an evil movie villain. "Holy shit—I rule." She turns to Chloe, who is giving her the _you better fuckin explain now face_. "Chloe, I fucking rule!"

"Max," Chloe warns, looking ready for bloodshed if she doesn't get filled in right this second.

"I brought him back with me!" Max grins. "Through time!"

"Okay," Chloe says skeptically, brow furrowed, clearly unimpressed. "Why? And more importantly—why have you never done that with me?"

"I didn't know I could before now!" That will probably be of little importance to Chloe. "I'm sorry, I should have thought of it sooner—actually, it was Warren's idea."

Chloe frowns deeply.

"Whoa—I can't believe this is real—Max, you are a rockstar!" Warren groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shit, are you sure I'm not tripping hardcore right now?"

"Uh, not if you can tell me what you did to Nathan right before we came here?" She's sure it worked, at least for Warren, but there's no harm in being extra super sure. Plus she might be a little bit vain right now.

"I, uh, went boyscout on his face—"

"What, is that some sort of kinky way of saying he gave you a blowie?" Chloe asks, butting into the conversation. Max shoots her a dirty look. Chloe shrugs innocently.

"No—I… huh?" Warren is staring at his hands like they're not real.

"Look what you did, Chloe, you confused him."

"He seemed pretty confused on his own."

"I think he's still drunk. I guess bringing his consciousness back through time doesn't erase the fact that he was wasted when we took that selfie…"

"No kidding." Chloe pauses, the vague amusement draining from her face. “Wait, what's the selfie got to do with this?”

Oh. Right. She doesn't know because Max couldn't fucking tell her about attempting to save William. “Uh, you know how my powers have a time limit? I can only go back a few minutes—“

“Yeah, and?”

“I guess I can hop farther back through photographs of myself. So, selfies.”

“Whoa, I guess selfies are useful for something other than teen vanity after all,” Chloe breathes, visibly trying to wrap her head around what it means that Max can potentially travel back as early as her first baby photo. 

Not good. If she gives Chloe time to ponder the mechanics of her powers, she'll eventually wind up with one conclusion: save William. And Max can't let her know she's already tried that, can't let Chloe be faced with the choice of _her life or her father's life_.

Time to change the subject. "Warren," Max says gently, touching his arm to get his attention. "What did you do with Nathan before we came back here?"

Warren squeezes his eyes shut, like it takes a lot out of him to think. "You showed up to my room with Nathan and told me you're a time travel heroine. After that I patched up Nathan's face, and then we held hands… now we're here."

So it really did work. Holy shit, she can't stop smiling—but Chloe is majorly offended by her little happy dance, so Max halts her enthusiasm. Bad Max. Chloe just lived her worst nightmare, finding Rachel's body in that junkyard, and here Max is reveling in her own abilities. She's an ass.

"Max, tell me what the fuck happens tonight." Chloe grips her shoulder, trying to communicate her urgency and frustration through touch; the results are painful.

Chloe is a loaded gun—and literally has a loaded gun. Max can't let her set out on another witch hunt, which is exactly what she'll do if Max breathes a word of Mark Jefferson's involvement. 

"Look," Max encircles both of Chloe's wrists. Chloe's pulse drums beneath her thumbs. Tears and dirt, grief from the junkyard, are still smeared across her face. "I know you want answers right now. And justice. I do too—but we have time to figure out what kind of justice we want for Rachel—for Kate."

"I'm sorry, but I don’t give a shit about Kate Marsh right now! At least _she's_ alive."

Max winces. She knows Chloe doesn't mean that, not in her heart. She just falls back on anger and callousness when she feels helpless.

"I'm here for you, Chloe. I promise, I know what we have to do. Nathan didn't hurt Rachel—"

"You have to be fucking kidding me, Max. Not Nathan?! Now I know you've lost your mind. Who else? That was his bunker!"

Max can feel the crossroads, the choice she's faced with, pounding through her veins. Tell Chloe the truth or lie to her? Max can't let Chloe know Mr. Jefferson is behind this. Chloe will definitely go after him, and there's no way Max will be able to stop her.

Plus she has no idea how long this trip to the past will last. When she saved William, she was only in the past for a limited time. Then again, she hadn't exactly tried to stay longer. She was eager to get back to her real body and real time. And this photo hop was only hours ago—not years… maybe she can hold it until time catches back up with where it's supposed to be.

Should she lie to Chloe? Tell her she doesn't know who is behind Rachel's death?

There's no way Chloe will buy that.

And who is Max kidding, she can't lie to Chloe. Just keeping silent about what happened in the alternate timeline has been way too hard.

"Chloe. I know who killed Rachel because he kills you too, and almost killed me, later tonight."

"Who?" Anxiety, anticipation, eagerness, violence, all running across Chloe's face. "Who, Max, who?"

A syllable dies on her lips. She can't look Chloe in the eyes. "I don't want to tell you."

The mix of emotions on Chloe all boil down to one thing: fury.

Max swallows. Tears coat her eyes, threatening to spill. It stings. "I don't know how long my power will last right now. If I screw this up, I may end up dead, for real, and there's no going back."

She can see it now, telling Chloe about Jefferson, setting her off on a reckless mission, Max's power wearing off and her consciousness trying to travel forward to a time and body that already died in the new timeline she created. She hasn't tested this use of her powers enough to feel safe, to feel in control.

"So, what you're saying is,” the words are hissed through Chloe's clenched teeth. “If you tell me who killed my _best friend_ I'll end up getting you killed? It'll be _my_ fault?"

"No!" Max blinks and the tears finally spill. Best friend, Rachel Amber is Chloe's best friend. Of course. Max was missing in action for five years of Chloe's life, of course her importance to has Chloe waned. "No, I don't think that at all. I just. I can't see you dead again. I don't want anyone dead—besides maybe the fucker that did this to Rachel and Kate and all those other girls. And I promise we'll figure out the best way to handle this, the one that gives you the most closure."

Chloe scoffs, rolling her eyes towards the sky as if the idea of closure, moving on, having a life beyond today, isn't something she plans on partaking in.

That terrifies Max.

"Chloe, I swear I'm on your side, I'm not here to tell you you're wrong, or to stop you. Whatever sort of revenge you want, I'll help you get it. But right now, I need you to trust me. We have to get through tonight quietly, and think this through."

Chloe is still staring up at the sky, chewing the inside of her lip, biting back her venom. Her entire body is taut, trembling slightly with restraint. So many people in Chloe's life haven't been on her side. So many people have let Chloe down, and Max among them.

Max's voice is small when she says, "Chloe, I would do anything for you."

She is a fool. The moment the words leave her lips she can hear Chloe's retort: _Anything? Anything except tell me who killed Rachel. Except tell me you were back in Arcadia Bay. Except call me once in five years._

But instead Chloe releases a ragged exhale and says, "Okay." She crosses her arms over her chest and refuses to look at Max. "Okay, what do you need me to do?"

Max beams because despite all of Chloe's visible reluctance, Chloe is still on her side. Max can always count on Chloe to be there for her.

"Why are you so smiley?" Chloe shoots suspiciously. "What? You think I wasn't going to go along with your plan? Please. Like I could resist those Max Caulfield puppy eyes." 

Damn she sounds bitter. Max just smiles wider.

And then a cell phone buzzes.

Chloe's frowns and fishes her phone from her pocket.

“It's Nathan,” she says, eyes still scanning the text when Max grabs the phone from her, “Max—what the hell?”

“Sorry,” Max says, “I think it's for me.”

Chloe is royally pissed. A quick scan of the text tells Max she acted preemptively, she didn't need to hide the text from Chloe because there is no mention of Jefferson.

“Got over excited,” Max explains sheepishly, and twists the phone to let Chloe see. Warren leans over her other shoulder to peer at the screen.

The text reads:

_dont hav maxs number on this phne, u better b wit her Tell her either im crazier than I thouh t or her powers work_

Max shoots a reply, _can I call you?_

The three of them must look pretty silly, gathered on the pavement outside the party, faces illuminated by one phone screen. Hopefully bystanders think they're watching cat videos or something, not eagerly anticipating a riveting text reply.

_If ur quick, hell b here soon_

Max wastes no time pressing the call button and bringing the phone to her ear. She shoos Warren and Chloe away a bit, anxiously listening to the phone ring.

The ringing stops. “Nathan?”

“Caulfield. Please fucking tell me—“

“We were all just on Warren's bed holding hands. You saved me from you-know-who with a tripod stand.”

Nathan sighs a breath he must have been holding, relief that boils into laughter. He sounds a bit frantic, anxious, like maybe he spent the minutes since traveling back in time trying to convince himself that it all really happened—that it wasn't just in his head. Had it taken him this long to work up the nerve to text Chloe?

“I've explained the situation to Chloe. Warren is with me, but he's drunk—“

Nathan laughs again, this time more relaxed. Crickets chirp in the background. He's not in his room. Must be outside the dorm building.

“I think I'll send Chloe and Warren to wait in the get-away truck—you know what Chloe's truck looks like, right? She almost ran your ass over the other day—” Nathan grunts assent. “Good. I'm going to go get Victoria as soon as I hang up. We'll all go someplace safe for tonight and figure things out. Sound good?”

“Yeah, plan princess. I guess I'll warn you when I get rid of Jefferson, since he'll be on his way to the party after. He's coming here right now to talk to me about what I think you and Price know about... everything.”

“You told him you thought we knew everything?”

“Before, yeah. I thought it'd stop him from going after Victoria—going after anyone tonight.”

“What are you going to tell him this time?”

“That I overreacted when I told him we were in deep shit because you stole my burner phone. People love to hear that I'm overreacting.”

“Alright, well, do whatever you have to. Just lemme know when you're alone and we'll pick you up. And... Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay safe.”

He's silent for a long moment and then, “Yeah, whatever, you too.”

She hangs up for lack of a better thing to do.

“So you're really leaving me with this nerd?” Chloe says, not quite as angry as Max expects. “And what the hell does Victoria Chase have to do with this?”

“She's the next victim, remember? Empty binder? Ring a bell?”

Chloe clicks her tongue. “Okay, yeah, got it. Why not just warn her, though? Why bring her along? I wouldn't wish what happened to Rachel on anyone, but Victoria doesn't exactly fit into our little group of friends. I'm already not too thrilled at this pipsqueak being in the know,” she flicks Warren on the side of the head. He just blinks, wide eyed. 

“She's Nathan's best friend. We need Nathan to cooperate big time—I'll explain why that's important later. But he won't cooperate well, even if he wanted to, if he's spending all night worrying about Victoria.”

“Gross, they're like Lady and The Tramp—except they're both Lady. Which sounds hot, but, yuck.”

Max cringes, mostly at how offensive Chloe is being without realizing it. “Thanks for the nightmare fuel—I do not wanna see them sharing a plate of spaghetti.”

Actually, seeing them share a plate of spaghetti would be preferable to the shit that's _supposed_ to go down tonight. At least they'd be happy.

“So... I'm with Blue?” Warren asks, rubbing the spot where Chloe had flicked him. “Like, super stake-out mode?”

“Yeah, keep lookout from the shadows of the parking lot, will you?” Max asks, like he's a child about to embark on a Very Important pretend mission. 

“Yes ma'am!” his attempt at a salute ends with him hitting himself in the face.

“Keep an eye on him,” Max whispers to Chloe, searching the other girl's face and trying to stress the importance of this in her own expression, which is pleading. 

“Sure, whatever.” Chloe catches Max's hand and squeezes, “Come back soon, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah. I'll be quick.”

“Okay,” Chloe releases Max's hand, spinning around to clap Warren on the back, giving him a shove towards the parking lot. “Off we go, nerd. You better not fucking throw up in my car.”

Warren grumbles something in response, but Max can't hear it. She can barely even hear the pulse of the music blaring from the building behind her. Suddenly, her heart is thrumming and her fingers feel numb. 

She watches Chloe and Warren's retreating backs for longer than she ought to, before heading towards the double-doors leading into the party. She's on her own now.

How the hell is she supposed to convince Victoria Chase to come with her? 

Why did she think she could do this?

What did she get herself into?

She'll be laughed out of the whole damn party.


	7. Reins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the handful of people who are still sticking with this!! You're all awesome!
> 
> TW: Reference to teen pregnancy, gendered slurs, jealousy, canon-typical content.

"Max—hello! Max!"

Oh right. Stella. There are people at this party besides Victoria—a lot of them. And judging by last time she went through the party, most of them want to talk to her. But she doesn't have time for this. She needs to get Victoria out of the party before Jefferson arrives.

"Uh, hey Stella," Max halts her rather pointed stride mid-step, one leg awkwardly hovering in the air. She spins to face Stella, trying her best to look casual and failing. At least she's not as riled up this time; she just came from the quiet, almost-safety of Warren's room, not the terror that was the junkyard.

"Whoa, you look like you're on a mission.” Stella's amused by this, at least. Not suspicious in the slightest. “Your face is super intense. Who stole your homework?"

Max wishes homework theft was the height of her current worries. "No homework woes tonight, Stella. Just looking for Victoria.” Before Stella can inquire, Max lies, “There's... drama. I've got a bone to pick with her."

"Don't we all," Stella laments. "I try to stay off of Victoria's radar. But it seems like the more someone does that, the more she hones in."

"Tell me about it." Max curses herself for being so damn chained to social obligation—she can't be chitchatting right now, but…

"Don't let me keep you though," Stella says, not bitterly, though Max must look antsy as hell, unable to stop glancing between both doors. "Want a water bottle? Best to stay hydrated on nights like this. They're courtesy of Mr. Jefferson. He always looks after his students."

There's a edge of humor in Stella's last sentence and—oh, oh shit—Max completely forgot about her conversation with Stella the first time she went to the party. Stella was assigned to her post at the party as extra credit. By Mr. Jefferson.

Max brings her hand to her mouth, obscuring whatever disturbed or overly thoughtful expression that must be crossing her face right now. What does this mean? Stella can't possibly be involved, could she? And oh, oh god, Stella was the one that had told Max that she knew from a reliable source that Rachel had slept with Mr. Jefferson. Max had just wrote it off as campus hearsay, but knowing what happened to Rachel, combined with Rachel's letter to Chloe that Max found balled up in the junkyard, detailing a love affair with someone older and scary, someone Rachel knew Chloe would find creepy… it could be true.

The question is, how did Stella know about Rachel and Jefferson, and what was her source?

"Here," Stella snags a water bottle and leans over the table, arm outstretched to wave it in Max's face. "You need this. Whatever fight you're having with Victoria, I can tell by the look on your face that it's serious."

The water sloshes in the bottle and Stella teeters a bit over the table. Max takes the bottle out of obligation.

"Stella," she says, before she really thinks about it, staring at the innocuous bottle of water in her hand. "How did you know Rachel slept with Mr. Jefferson? What was your source?"

"Well, that was random."

"Seriously," if Stella thought Max was intense before, it must pale in comparison to the look Max is giving her now. "It's really important."

"Uh, why?" Stella just frowns and shifts her weight to one hip. "No offense Max, but I don't see how it's relevant to you."

For the first time ever, Max gets a bad vibe from the bespectacled girl. Mr. Jefferson could walk in at any moment. Max shuffles closer to the table, eyeing the people talking and swaying in the corners of the small entryway. The music is loud enough here that even public conversations feel private.

Max considers how effective pleading with Stella would be, like Courtney and Taylor begging for juicy gossip from Victoria. But based on Stella's almost defensive response just now, Max isn't so sure paying dumb and acting desperate will work.

Even though she had promised herself she would try not to use her rewind power anymore in hopes that it'll stop the tornado, Max reminds herself that she does still have it if she needs it.

Max takes a chance, looks Stella dead in the eye. "It is relevant to me, because I know what happened to Rachel."

Stella is visibly taken aback for a split second before she rolls her eyes and laughs. "Well so do I, duh. That's how I know she slept with him."

What?

Max's heart drops and she must be staring at the other girl in horror because Stella tilts her head, puzzled, and still so fucking casual for someone who just admitted that they know a classmate is dead.

"I assume she finally contacted Chloe?"

What?

Stella's mild amusement dissolves into impatience. "Hello—Max? If you know why she's missing then you can probably figure how I know."

"How do you… what?" How is Stella acting so casual? There must be a mistake… What the hell is going on? As soon as Max thinks she knows something, reality always does a one-eighty. This entire week has been hell.

Stella groans as if Max is failing an easy class and then says, slowly, "Rachel told me, about the—" she mouths the next word soundlessly for secrecy's sake, and Max wouldn't believe she had read Stella's lips right if it wasn't for the adjoining cradling motion Stella made with her arms.

 _Baby_? What? Rachel was pregnant? No way. Stella has it wrong, all wrong. 

"Stella," Max says, overwhelmed by information she doesn't want to be true, information that complicates an already impossible situation. "Rachel Amber is dead."

Stella wrinkles her nose, recoils, like she just heard a particularly unbelievable bit of gossip. "Uh, no she's not. Are you high, Max? Seriously, you came to the party high? Wow. Never pegged you for that kind of student."

The certainty baffles Max—Stella doesn't believe her? Not even a little? Disbelief is one thing, but outright telling Max she's wrong? Rachel has been missing for six months. It's not that far-fetched to believe she's dead—most people already assume the worst, even if they try to stay positive.

"How do you know?" Max asks, breathless. "How do you know she's alive?"

"Look," Stella's expression is sour now, pity and superiority both mingling in her demeanor. "I'll only tell you this because whatever wild conclusions you've jumped to about Rachel obviously have you messed up right now.” She pauses, pointedly. “And you won't tell anyone else, right? Not even your friend, Chloe? Rachel didn't want her to know. You'll respect that, right, Max?"

What the hell is going on? "R-right?"

Stella snorts. "That didn't sound very confident. Well, whatever. Not my problem if you blab. Just have enough sense not to say you heard this from me, alright?"

"Alright." Is this just a waste of time? Is Stella some sort of compulsive liar or something? If she is, she's a good one.

"I know because I just saw her three days ago."

Three days? But how, those pictures of Rachel and Nathan tied up were from six months ago. She was dying in those pictures, possibly already dead. 

"On Monday? The 7th? Are you sure it was her?"

"Positive. I spoke with her myself."

Could it be that those pictures weren't from the night Rachel died? Or possibly taken on different nights? But Nathan has implied he believed Rachel died six months ago… was he lying? It's possible, but the way Nathan spit the truth at her, like he wanted her to hate him for what he did… it was honesty in its rawest form—like when Chloe told her in a fit of anger that she blamed her dead father for how shitty her life was, blamed her mother for her father's death. Or how Chloe just told her she didn't give a shit about Kate Marsh. Harshness of that level is never a lie, just a dark, deep truth the speaker themselves wishes wasn't true.

Shoot. Damn, damn, damn. Max is more confused than ever. It's like the truth is just beyond her reach, like if she just added Stella's testimony to the clues up on the board in Chloe's room, looked at them in the right lighting, it would all come together. She's so close.

"Why was she missing then?"

"I've already told you, Max." Stella is probably two seconds away from throwing her head back and tapping her foot with impatience.

"Right," Max mimics the cradling motion Stella made earlier, expression questioning. Stella nods. "So she left town?"

"Something like that. The less you know the less I get in trouble when you blab."

That's fair. "But she came back? A few days ago?"

Stella gestures assent.

"Monday?"

At this Stella does throw her head back, groaning loudly. "I said yes, Max!"

Max flinches—she's never been on Stella's bad side before. But she can't blame Stella for her impatience, the girl can't know why Max is floundering at all the new information.

Not quite knowing if she's overstepping a line but taking a chance anyway, Max leans forward and touches her fingers to Stella's wrist. "Sorry for being such a bother, Stella. But thank you. This means a lot to me. I promise I won't blab. Not even to Chloe."

Stella simply shrugs in response. They both know it's not a promise Max intends to keep.

"I'll talk to you later, Stella. I owe you, big time."

"Sure Max," Stella's expression lightens slightly. “Enjoy the party.”

The sentiment is flat; Stella likely knows that their conversation just destroyed any chance Max had at enjoying the party. 

As soon as Max is through the curtains and into the party, out of Stella's sight, she tosses the water bottle into the nearest trashcan.

 

* * * 

 

Max goes through the motions for the rest of the party. She weaves through the other students, the air in the building suffocating, humid with sweat and chlorine. Max only talks to the people she has to talk to in order to get past the ridiculous set of curtains and junk stacked up to fence off the _VIP Section_. Daniel and Brooke look like they're having fun together when she passes them, and Max thinks maybe encouraging Daniel to come to the party is the one thing she hasn't screwed up all week. Still, she doesn't stop to chat this time. She doesn't have words tonight.

Something about the conversation with Stella is filling her with anxiety, an unbridled itch to figure out what happened to Rachel Amber, because the situation just got a whole lot more complicated. Or had it? Does it really matter if Rachel was sleeping with Mr. Jefferson? All that really means is that his betrayal is even more fucked up than Max had known. Then again, he looked at everyone at school in the eye and spoke encouraging words, treated them kindly; he had no problem facing them even after what he did to Kate. To the other girls. It scares her like nothing else. 

Nathan could barely even hold her gaze in Two-Whales that day, after the fight in the parking lot. He could barely look at her in the principal’s office. He didn't have casual, like-nothing-happened interactions with Kate Marsh, with Chloe. There's something so different there, about Jefferson and Nathan. It's a difference she'll fight to make known, to make sure the blame falls where it should, if Chloe decides to go to the police.

Poor Rachel. Poor Kate. Poor Chloe. Max hates her peers a little as she pushes through them. Hates how oblivious they are. How can they party like this while Kate is in a hospital bed, recovering from their last party?

Stella's conversation keeps ringing in her head, playing over and over in mismatched clips. How can she talk to Victoria when she's still reeling over everything?

Rachel. Rachel seemed to be everywhere. To know everyone. To be be adored by everyone. How is that possible? That kind of popularity is fabled, something in movies and books marketed at teens. It's not real. No one is that popular and loved simultaneously. Popularity breeds hate, but the only person who seems to hate Rachel is Victoria, and even Hayden said Victoria's hatred was just a twisted brand of admiration. 

Victoria. 

As Max steps into the VIP area, it's the first thing she notices: Victoria isn't where she should be. 

Victoria isn't standing where she should be, talking in a circle of friends or whatever Vortex Club members call friends.

Max panics. Pivots in place, head whipping around, searching for that crop of blond hair and lanky limbs. 

A thousand thoughts go through her head and not a single one good—did Max change things? Is Victoria already in the dark room? In Jefferson's car? No. No. It can't be.

The only thing she can think to do is rip through the party shouting Victoria's name.

She takes a few hasty steps forward, ready to raise hell, but then halts jerkily when she hears her name.

“Maxine Caulfield,” Victoria's voice from behind her, and one delicate tap of fingers on her shoulder.

Max spins around so fast she stumbles. Victoria steps back in distaste. But then again, when does she ever look at Max any differently?

Victoria leans back and crosses her arms over her chest in that way she does, looking down at Max through slightly narrowed eyes, appraising. Sharp. Like she's already got an arsenal of things she could say. Max has never met anyone as intelligent as Victoria. It's a different sort of intelligence than Brooke's or Warren's or even Max's herself. It's quick-witted and intuitive and dangerous—and Victoria knows just how to use it. 

The VIP section is less crowded than the rest of the party, but it seems like the sea of chatting students parted for Victoria. They're as alone as they can be at a party, standing beside the pool. And Victoria's looking at Max like she's been expecting her.

Max doesn't know what to say. She feels close to tears, her confidence drained by the conversation with Stella, replaced with confusion and desperation and a whole lot of the sort of frustration that leaves you crying into your textbook pages at two in the morning. She can barely meet Victoria's eyes.

“Mind explaining _this_ to me?” Victoria asks oh-so-sweetly, with that weaponized innocence she utilizes so well. She shoves her phone in Max's face.

The brightness of the screen stings Max's eyes. It takes her several blinks before she can make out the texts. They're from Nathan. 

_Yo, babe, i'm sorry I didn't make it to the party, something came up. It's important, want you to come here if you can. Sending max to get you. (yes, max caulfield)_

There are text exchanges that follow, but Victoria's thumb is intentionally keeping the phone from scrolling farther than this text.

Nathan's text is casual, playful, no trace of _I care about you and need you to be safe_ , no indication of _I'm terrified right now and need you here,_ which is how Max knows Nathan feels—how she _saw_ him feel. How can he manage to pretend like he doesn't feel anything for Victoria? 

Max realizes she's lucky, so fucking lucky, to have the variety of friendship she has with Chloe. She feels the same way for Chloe that Nathan does for Victoria, but Max can express it all she wants without fear of rejection, with the amazing comfort of knowing Chloe returns her feelings.

What is Nathan afraid of? Victoria had told Max that Nathan was her best friend, last time Max was at the party.

When Max doesn't reply, Victoria shakes the phone in Max's face. 

“Hello, explain! Now!”

Max sighs, rubs her eyes. “I don't know if I could explain even if I wanted to.” She gestures towards the exit, starts to move towards it. “But we should get going.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Victoria chastises, pushing Max by the shoulder and spinning her back around to face her. The touch is quick and delicate again, just fingertips, just enough pressure to accomplish what Victoria wants. Not long enough to get her hands soiled on Max's department store shirt. “You're going to tell me what the hell this is about. Right now.”

Max eyes her wearily. So Nathan must have been infuriatingly vague in whatever texts followed. Victoria's face has a slight sheen of sweat from the humidity, but her hair is still perfect. “What do you want to know?”

“What are you doing hanging out with _my_ best friend? Nathan doesn't like you.” There's a hint of confusion behind her vitriol. “Don't you have your own best friend to hang with? That little blue rat of yours? Leave mine alone.”

Is... is she actually jealous? For a moment Max thinks she can't imagine what it's like to be that insecure. But then she remembers Rachel, and wonders what she might have done if Rachel wasn't missing, and was simply occupying the spot as Chloe's best friend, a spot that used to belong to Max. Max would probably roll over and accept her fate, pine after what could-have-been. What she lost by her own doing.

At least Victoria has the guts to be territorial. 

“Victoria,” Max drains the impatience out of her voice by the end of the other girl's name. She understands what Victoria is feeling. Victoria doesn't know what a dire situation they're in—she is just a teenager at an art school—that's what she had said herself. Max understands why she's so defensive. No use pretending they're different just because Max sees parts of herself in Victoria. Parts that she hates. “I don't like Nathan like that. If you come with me, we'll explain.”

“Why should I?”

“Because your best friend Nathan Prescott asked you to?”

“Who cares?” she scoffs, folding her arms tighter over her chest, a gesture Max watched Nathan preform hours ago. “I'm pissed at him. I can't believe he didn't tell me he's been hanging out with you.” she spits the last word like it's something unclean. 

“It literally just happened tonight,” that's technically not true, because it happens later tonight, but explaining time travel to Victoria right now would be an explosively bad idea. 

“You expect me to believe that? That you just became his henchmen in the span of a few hours? Please. I'm not an idiot, Max.” She leans forward slightly for those last words, getting in Max's face, looming in that way her height allows her to. 

Max straightens. Small but refusing to be intimidated. She can't help but bristle when Victoria's around. Even though Max is trying to be gentle, understanding about this situation, there's just something about the other girl that makes her on edge, that gets the better of her. “He helped me out of a bad situation when he didn't have to. And now I'm here to help him out of one.”

Victoria scoffs, retreats fluidly back to her own space, shifting her weight to one foot, toeing the ground with her other. She's pouting, Max thinks, as she pointedly, sightlessly, looks around the room—anywhere but at Max. Like a petulant kid who wants everyone to know they're unhappy.

Max can't help but laugh. She's rewarded with a glare so sharp it takes a conscious effort not to recoil. “Come on, Victoria. You wanted an adventure tonight, right? That's why you come to these parties, isn't it? In hopes something memorable will happen? Hoping that you're making the most of your life?” Max puts her hands on her hips, raises a teasing, defiant, _knowing_ , eyebrow at the other girl. “Well, I'm offering you an adventure.”

Even as Victoria's taken aback, she's busy appraising Max. Eventually she finds words. “What the fuck kind of drugs did Nathan give you tonight?”

Max laughs again, louder this time. “None at all,” she says, and mostly for dramatic effect, but partially because she doesn't want to lose her in the crowd, she offers Victoria her hand. “C'mon, let's go find Nathan.”

Victoria hesitates, stare burning holes through Max's outstretched hand. A pink blush spreads across her cheeks, visible even in the dimmed, flashy lighting of the party. 

That's... interesting.

Max doesn't have time to really think about what she's seeing, because Victoria makes up her mind and accepts Max's hand, surprising Max by weaving her fingers through Max's stiff, sweaty ones. Before Max process what's going on, Victoria's pressed close to her side, guiding her towards the exit. Like they're a pair of gossipy, giggly, best friends stumbling out of the party together.

Except Max is just baffled by how comfortable Victoria is, how easy it is for the other girl to play the part of _best friend forever_ to someone like Max, someone she hates.

“If you're going to make me ditch the party with you,” she says, slyly, tilting her head so Max can see her perilously playful smile, the glint of amusement in her eyes. “We can at least give everyone something to talk about.”

Max's voice is strained with a mixture of horror and amusement when she replies, “Victoria, darling, are you actually suggesting we fool all of our good friends and peers into thinking we're leaving the party to engage in something uncouth and scandalous?”

Victoria's laugh is cute and nasally and genuine through the shock at how quickly Max was willing to play along. “Oh Max, you know I love giving these bitches reason to talk about me. Gives them something to do besides compare outfits.”

“You're practically doing a public service right now.” Max smiles. “You should add this to your list of volunteer hours for school.”

“You know me,” Victoria says, intentionally bumping shoulders with Max. “I'm a regular good samaritan.”

Max thinks about the letter from Victoria in Kate's hospital room. About Victoria telling her during this party the first time around that just because they're similar doesn't mean they should be friends. She allows herself to feel the weight of Victoria's slender fingers in her hand, the almost uncomfortable warmth of their sides nearly touching. 

She thinks about how she hates the parts of herself she sees reflected in Victoria, hates the parts that are nothing like her, like a girl she could have been in a different life, like the girl she _had been_ in the alternate timeline. And she wonders if Victoria sees the same when she looks at Max: a freer, more comfortable-in-her-skin version of herself, a girl Victoria could be, but isn't.

Brooke halts Daniel mid-sentence with a hand on his arm as Max and Victoria pass, Brooke stares after them, unabashed, eyebrows disappearing into her fringe. Max just smiles sheepishly and waves. Brooke is on her phone, texting someone in an instant. The worst part is that Brooke isn't the only one doing a double-take in their direction.

“God,” Max breathes. “This is awful. You actually like this sort of attention?”

Max wasn't expecting a serious response to her question, but Victoria takes a moment before answering, “I like knowing something other people don't know... I like making them think they know something, keeping them guessing. I like to have the upper hand. Shit.” She laughs, small and abashed. “That... doesn't make any sense, does it?”

“It doesn't,” Max replies, too quick, without thinking. “But I want it to.” 

Shit. She's trespassing in territory she doesn't even know if she wants to be in.

It's not exactly saying _I want to get to know you better,_ but it's close enough to make Max's face flush with embarrassment. 

Victoria spares her by just making a small, contemplative _hm_ , and the next thing Max knows they're pushing through the double doors of the building, out into the less suffocating, cool night breeze. And Max is left feeling like, despite Victoria's obliviousness to the situation at hand, the path ahead, it's not Max leading them towards the parking lot, it's the frustrating girl at her side.


	8. Visibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely Drunk!Warren POV. I don't know what else to say or why I did this to myself.
> 
> TW: physical abuse, emotional abuse, mentions of alcohol, mentions of self-harm, mentions of emotional distress, short descriptions of self-harm wounds (blood), fake-out-make-out (feigned relationship under duress).

Warren is a great look-out. He swears. He totally is. 

Chloe snaps at him from the driver's seat of her super awesome monster truck, “Just sit down and shut up.” 

Why would he do that when he's being perfectly useful, draped across the dashboard, straining to keep look-out? The truck is so high up off the ground it's almost like a sniper tower! Or something. Except his breath his fogging up the windshield... probably because his nose is pressed right up against the glass. But the glass is cool and it feels nice against his skin in the stuffy truck cabin.

“Buh—but what if Max needs us? Or Nathan? Gotta keep watch...”

“You're not going to see anything from the parking lot, dumbass.”

“Huh?” He can see... like... the whole school though. Kinda. What he can see of it. He can definitely see what he can see. He wipes away the breath-fog with his sleeve and squints into the darkness. Yep. Visibility one-hundred percent.

Chloe growls, throwing herself back against the driver's seat and flexing her fingers on the steering wheel. It's not going to move if she does that—the truck is off. 

“Ugh! I can't believe Max left me to babysit you while she's off actually getting shit done.”

“I think she was afraid that you'd scare Victoria away, and we need Victoria or else Nathan won't wanna be friends.” A hiccup forces its way out of him and he stares at where he _thinks_ his diaphragm is. 

“Arg, you are so fucking annoying. Why is Max even friends with you?”

“Wha?” Max is a good friend. She wouldn't say mean things like that. Right?

Chloe sighs. “I guess it was pretty cool of you to pummel Nathan like that. Twice.”

Of course he would defend Max no matter what. Except he remembers Nathan's tentative, embarrassed face while he was patching it up. “Nuh-uh. Not cool. Nathan's just having a—” a hiccup cuts him off, “—bad week. Or... life. I think.”

Chloe scoffs. “Yeah, poor little rich kid who doesn't have to pay for any of the mistakes he's made because his daddy just fixes it with money.”

“I think,” it hurts to think, “I think, he does pay for the things he does.” What does Nathan do? Saunter around Arcadia Bay getting into trouble? None of the trouble really seems planned though... Nathan throws wicked fits spontaneously in class, mostly directed at teachers who clearly hate him. “I think he pays for it by disappointing his dad.”

“Gee, I wish I had a dad to be disappointed in me.” Chloe rolls down her driver's side window with violent cranks. 

Cool—not many cars have cranks anymore. He rolls down his too; the breeze ruffles his hair. 

“What the fuck is with you and Max anyway? How much cash did Prescott shell out to make you two fall in love with him?”

Love? He's never even seen Nathan date anyone, now that he thinks about it. Which is weird, considering Nathan parties so much. What would Nathan even be like in a relationship? He got super embarrassed over getting antibiotic applied to his face—he'd probably have a heart attack over someone trying to hold his hand in public. 

For some reason Warren remembers how often he hears Nathan crying or screaming or both in his room alone. Or just muttering to himself on the way out of the dorms. It makes Warren sad.

“Heeelloooo,” Chloe waves a hand in front of his face, a blur of bright blue nail polish. “I know you're drunk as fuck, but make yourself useful and tell me what the hell happened between you two and Nathan.”

Useful? Oh, yeah, he's supposed to be keeping look-out. He goes back to squinting out into the grounds surrounding Blackwell. “Uhhh, Max said he saved her life. That if it wasn't for him she'd be dead.”

Chloe grunts in disgust, but then something softens, like maybe she's considering what that means. 

Nathan saving Max's life is a good enough reason for Warren to reconsider his opinion of the guy. Not that he ever really hated Nathan that much, despite the events of the past week. He hated what Nathan represented more than anything else. But he always kinda felt bad for the Prescott kid, hard not to when he can be heard threatening to kill himself in his dorm room at five in the morning every other week, probably on the phone with his dad or something.

The whole floor can hear him, and Nathan must know it, especially because sometimes the screaming gets so bad that even Warren considers knocking on Nathan's door to offer assistance. He's never had the guts to actually knock, afraid he'll make it even worse by drawing attention to the fact that he could hear Nathan from across the hall. Thankfully whenever Warren pokes his head out to assess the situation, Hayden Jones is usually already on it, talking to Nathan through the door until Nathan lets him in. 

Sometimes Hayden isn't around and Warren just lets Nathan be, with no one going to check on him. Warren feels like shit. Especially since there was that one time, early in the school year, when Warren was cursing loudly at his guild-mates over skype about something dumb that happened during a raid, and Nathan knocked on his door to check on him.

Okay, Warren thinks it was to check on him. Nathan's disposition shifted from momentary apprehension to annoyance in one second flat when Warren told him that he was just yelling at a video game. After that Warren was promptly told to keep the noise level down. 

Fuck. Warren had been so pissed over that—Nathan is always either blasting music or yelling and throwing things, and he had the nerve to complain about Warren's gaming? 

But now he thinks, maybe Nathan really was checking on him.

Maybe.

Or maybe Nathan's just an ass. God, Warren's head hurts.

Chloe's been silent for a long while now. Oops. He was probably supposed to say something. He can't remember what they were talking about.

Uh. Oh, right, Nathan.

“Do you think I should go check on him?”

“Who?” Chloe asks, like his question is the biggest inconvenience ever. 

“Nathan Prescott.”

“Why?”

God, she's so blunt and vexed and it's oh so intimidating. How the hell does Max keep up with a girl like this? “To... um. Make sure he's safe? He should have met up with us by now.”

“You're fucking drunk, dude. What do you expect to do?”

“I know I am but I feel like I should try.”

Chloe shifts a slight glare his way (he thinks maybe her face is stuck that way) and sighs. She twists to rummage through the clutter at his feet. He lifts his knees up to his chest and peers at her over them. She emerges with a partially consumed bottle of water and shoves it into his hands. 

“Here, drink this first, and then you can go do whatever the hell you want. I'm sick of babysitting you anyway.”

Warren smiles and fumbles to twist the cap off. She's right, he should drink water first, he still feels woozy. 

With a gruff sort of impatience, Chloe bats his hand away and twists the cap off herself. She tosses the little plastic cap out the window. Hard.

Her hair reminds him of Sonic the Hedgehog. She's kinda like a hedgehog—a gentle creature with a prickly exterior. Maybe. He hopes they can be friends. It kinda stinks that Max never hangs out with him anymore, because he's too uncool for her new friend circle... 

“Hurry up and drink that so you can go save Max's precious new best friend,” Chloe snaps.

“I really don't think she's looking for a new best friend,” Warren says, genuinely confused.

That makes Chloe smile for the first time that night and he's too drunk to figure out why.

 

* * *

Warren knows Nathan is in his dorm, or around it, or something. And he only gets lost once on his way from Chloe's car in the student lot to the grounds outside the dorms. 

He doesn't have a plan. Except his plan is probably to just show up to wherever Nathan is having his confrontation with Jefferson, and... be present. Right? That will work. It has to. Jefferson doesn't seem like the type to want to get himself in trouble. And he can't mess with Nathan if another student is around to bear witness, right?

Right.

Great plan.

The grounds are deserted, probably because everyone not cool enough to go to the party is at home browsing the internet. That should have been him. Bleh. Except if he was his usual nerd self that night he wouldn't have been there to help Max by taking that selfie. So yeah. It was basically destiny that he went to the party. Even though he doesn't believe in destiny. Or fate. Yeah.

The barren state of the grounds is probably why he spots the two men so easily, even through his slightly drunken haze. 

Or maybe it's because Nathan is being loud. Very loud. And waving his hands.

Warren makes a beeline for the Tobanga totem pole, where Mark Jefferson is trying to calm a frantic Nathan in the shadows of the trees dotting the grounds. No one would be able to see them from the dorm windows.

The conversation doesn't look violent, at least, though as Warren draws closer he can hear Jefferson scolding Nathan in hissed words.

“Nathan, I don't see why you're choosing to make this more difficult than necessary—just hand over your phone and I'll take care of it. Who have you been texting all night, anyway? If you're having second thoughts—”

“Just use your own damn spare phone—they'll think it's me anyway. I'm the only one behind all of the kidnappings—haven't you heard? That's what they all think! Because I'm soooo fucking scary. Everyone fucking hates me around here!”

Aw. How much of what Nathan's saying is an act to try and get rid of Jefferson without suspicion? It makes sense to pepper some truth in there, to make the lies more believable. 

“Look, Nathan, I have to go announce the winner of the contest any minute, will you please stop being difficult?”

“Difficult, difficult, difficult! I'm always difficult!” Nathan screams so loud that Warren wonders if maybe he's trying to attract attention. Is he fearing for his life, and hoping the noise will attract witnesses? Or is he hoping Jefferson will get fed up and leave? “Difficult, difficult—“

Through the darkness, Jefferson's hand shoots out and hits Nathan hard across the face, stopping his words with a pained cry. Jefferson returns his hand to his jacket pocket, methodical, calm. Like he isn't a teacher who just assaulted a student.

And then Warren stumbles over a bush and both men snap to look at him, Nathan cradling his face.

Mark Jefferson's glare is intense. Holy shit. Maybe Warren should have stayed in the car like Max told him to.

Nathan is this odd mix of shock and apprehension—he keeps shifting his gaze from Warren to where Jefferson's hand is in his pocket. He looks kinda... kinda like he wants to jump in front of Warren and push him to safety. 

Huh.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Graham?” Jefferson snaps with more venom than the usual sternness all teacher's possess. Like nothing happened. Like Warren didn't just see him hit Nathan Prescott. “You know, Nathan told me about how you nearly beat him half to death in the dorms today. You're lucky he didn't go to the police, but I _will_ be having a conversation with the principal about it.”

The look in Jefferson's eyes is murderous, though his voice is calm and only mildly impatient. Holy shit. This was a bad idea. Warren doesn't even care about getting in trouble—even though he's never been in trouble before in his life. What Jefferson's saying is formulaic, scripted, what a teacher is expected to say, but there's a threat behind it all that runs way deeper. Jefferson had always given Warren the creeps, but this... this is scary. 

Warren just gapes, frozen in place. The cicadas are suddenly too loud.

“Well?” Jefferson stands up straighter. Nathan is even paler than usual in the moonlight. Like. Like he knows something bad is going to happen. “If you're here to cause trouble—“

“Nathan,” Warren chokes out, because it's the only thing he can think to say. Nathan. Nathan. Nathan has to work with him here. They can help each other out of this. “Why aren't you texting me back?”

Jefferson had asked who Nathan was texting. Maybe it will deescalate the situation if Jefferson thinks Nathan was texting Warren. Especially since Warren isn't mentioning that he just saw Jefferson hit Nathan.

Jefferson looks taken aback. Good.

Except Nathan's giving him the _what the fuck are you doing_ face. Uh. Uh. What's wrong? Maybe... maybe it's bad to imply he's been texting Nathan. If Jefferson knows about Warren beating up Nathan earlier, he likely also thinks that Warren is involved with Max and Chloe's investigation. Shit.

Shit.

He just made Nathan look even more suspicious. 

Nathan silently panics while Jefferson's confusion turns into suspicion. Warren needs to fix this. Fast.

“I came looking for you,” Warren says, faking a hiccup and swaying slightly, playing up the _being drunk_ thing even though the look Jefferson shot him a minute ago sobered him greatly. “What happened to meeting me behind the school, Nathan? You know, so I could... make up for earlier?” God. He's never flirted with anyone so directly like that. It's hard to fake and he probably sounds like a tool.

Warren tries his best to pretend like Jefferson doesn't exist. 

Nathan is still preoccupied with what's in Jefferson's pocket. Max said Jefferson killed Chloe—oh. Oh god, does he have a gun? He wouldn't... not on school grounds... would he?

“I told you to wait, Graham. Can't you see I'm busy?” Nathan says, indicating for the first time that he's willing to play along. 

“Your photography homework can wait,” Warren says, stumbling more than necessary as he makes his way over to Nathan, slinging an arm around the other boy. There's no way they're going to make it out of this unless Jefferson believes that Warren is harmless. “You said you'd let me kiss it better...” he reaches up to paw at Nathan's bruises.

Nathan grabs his hand and hisses, “I told you, not in front of other people.”

Warren beams at how quickly Nathan caught on to his plan. Jefferson won't think they're a threat if they're just a couple of closeted teenagers trying to have an illicit love affair. Right? Shit. 

Maybe he's still not sober enough... but if Jefferson was suspicious of Nathan working against him because Nathan's been preoccupied with texting someone all night—likely Max or Victoria—Jefferson will probably feel pretty stupid to realize Nathan is just some dumb kid trying to get laid despite the serious shit going down. And Warren is pretty sure Jefferson will jump at the chance to believe Nathan is that much of a fuck-up.

“But baby, I'm sorry,” Warren whines, leaning all of his weight onto Nathan, who stumbles a bit to hold him upright, placing a hand against his waist to steady him. Warren's shirt slides up at the contact, and he feels simultaneously too exposed under Jefferson's scrutiny, and a little safe in Nathan's arms. “I wanna make it up to you, please just come back to my room. I've been waiting all night.”

“My life doesn't revolve around you, you know,” Nathan says, lifting his free hand to brush Warren's hair back; his scalp tingles under the touch. The way Nathan's looking at him, gently, like a real lover... wow. He's good at this. “Always so impatient...” His voice is as soft as the kiss he places against Warren's temple.

Wow. Okay.

How in the world is he so good at this?

Nathan cradles Warren, rocking him slightly, his head resting atop Warren's as he guides Warren's face to press against his chest. 

“Are you fucking happy now, Mark?” The glare is evident in Nathan's tone. “You gonna tell my dad about this too? 

“Of course not. That's... your business.”

“Damn right it is—fucking sue me for trying to work things out with my boyfriend while you're scolding me for something that's not even my fault.”

“Were you acting up in class again, Nate?” Warren asks, looking up at Nathan with mock concern.

Nathan pats his hair and shushes him. “Shh, not now, baby.” 

Warren almost laughs at the absurdity, at Nathan's acting skills, at Jefferson's obvious discomfort at the awkwardness of Nathan's supposed boyfriend showing up drunk and outing him during such a serious conversation between the two other men. 

“You should really learn to prioritize your professional life above your private life, Mr. Prescott,” Jefferson cuts in stiffly, some of the tension in his voice replaced with an uncomfortable sort of hesitation. Like he honestly doesn't know what to make of this turn of events. Good. Good, good, good. “My apologies for valuing _our conversation about your education_ over your school-yard romance. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm expected to make an appearance at the party. Have a nice night.”

And like that, Mark Jefferson turns on his heel and walks away. 

“We did it!” Warren whispers against Nathan's neck. 

Nathan grunts and pulls Warren into a full on hug. “Shut the fuck up and act like a wanton lover until he's long gone.”

A quick glance over his shoulder tells Warren that Nathan has the right idea—Jefferson is walking suspiciously slow, probably doubting their cover story. 

“Are you sure you're okay with that?” Warren asks, because now that he's not fearing for his life so much, all that matters is whether or not Nathan was uncomfortable with all the acting. 

“Yeah, whatever.” Nathan's arms tighten around him, voice raising with a bit of hysteria. “He's looking! Just, do something!”

Warren pushes Nathan to the ground and straddles him.

“Well, hello,” Nathan says, dark humor lacing his anxiety.

Warren doesn't give him a chance to say anything snarky—he covers Nathan's mouth with his hand and pretends to kiss him. It feels really silly slobbering on the back of his own hand, but he's sure Jefferson is far enough away by now that it looks like they're believably rutting in the school's bushes—so it's all worth it.

And then he can feel Nathan cracking up underneath him, laughing behind his hand, and Warren laughs too, because holy shit they kind of make a great team.

Warren leans close to Nathan's ear, pulling his hand off of Nathan's mouth to prop himself up. “Is he gone yet?”

Nathan urges Warren back, palms firm against his chest, sitting up and looking over Warren's shoulder, lips close to his neck. “Almost.” He then promptly shoves Warren back, reversing their positions.

Nathan's a lot lighter than expected, sitting in Warren's lap and pulling his own jacket off, and then his button-up, and then stretching to pull his shirt over his head. And. That's a lot of bright red cuts down his arms. 

Before Warren can react, Nathan grabs his hands, lacing their fingers together and pinning them above Warren's head.

Nathan looms over him, guarded and vulnerable all at once. Warren catches himself watching the way moonlight and shadows play over Nathan's face. He has to turn his head to keep from staring, only to get an eyeful of the cuts lining Nathan's arm. Some are beading with tiny red droplets, their healing likely interrupted by all the roughhousing. Shit. 

A phone buzzes. Nathan sits up, abandoning their act completely to fish it from his pocket. The screen lights up his face. He laughs.

“Looks like Jefferson bought it,” he says, flipping his phone around to show Warren the screen.

The text reads: _Please do try not to get caught having sex on campus. You'll give your father a heart attack when he has to get you out of trouble with the police. And for God's sake, use protection._

Warren forces a relieved smile—and he is honestly relieved. But something about the last part of that text makes him ill. Jefferson sounds like a concerned parent.

Nathan busies himself with the phone while he staggers to his feet. Distractedly, he offers Warren a hand. Warren takes it, trying to keep his eyes off of Nathan's arms, and chest, and hips.

Once he's on his feet, Nathan drops his hand and goes about gathering his discarded clothes, putting them back on. And Warren thought _he_ wore a lot of layers.

“Texting Max now, warning her that Jefferson is on his way,” Nathan says, eyes still on his phone. 

“Good idea.” At least Nathan is thinking straight. “And uh, hey, sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the whole relationship act—I didn't know what to do, and in my defense I'm really drunk and not that creative—“

“It's fine, shut up,” Nathan snaps, though not angrily. The phone's glow lights up Nathan's eyes as they meet Warren's. “That was pure genius. And that gossipy fucker Jefferson can't keep anything to himself. So he'll definitely tell my dad I'm gay.”

Warren cringes. “I'm sorry—“

“Don't be. Like I said, genius. Now I don't have to come out to that asshole on my own.”

“Huh?” The moment Warren vocalizes his confusion he regrets it—because his brain catches up with the implication and, oh, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Nathan Prescott is gay. That's why Warren hasn't ever seen him dating anyone.

“What do you mean it makes sense?” Nathan asks sharply.

Oh. Uh-oh. Did he say that out loud? “Uhhh—nothing, I just, have never seen you with anyone so...”

“I'm so glad Dr. Warren Graham has been monitoring my sex life.”

For the first time that night, Warren can feel a massive blush spreading over his face. “I—I—“

Fuck. Why the fuck did he drink that beer? He swears it was only like, one sip, too. He doesn't even like beer, it tastes like garbage.

Nathan rolls his eyes at Warren's floundering and flips his phone around for Warren to see.

The text message window is Max's:

_got rid of jeffershit nerd's wit me ware ya @ ???????_

_I've acquired Victory. Cut around the back of campus and meet us at the road. Can't remember the street name. Oh well, you know what I'm talking about, just be there. ;o;_

Warren laughs at the auto-correct. And at Nathan's atrocious spelling. Can he really not spell or is he just lazy?

“Alright, let's not keep the ladies waiting,” Warren says, thankful for the distraction.

“Yeah, better not keep them waiting,” Nathan claps Warren on the back and gives him a push towards the field behind campus. It's a bit of a walk to the road. “Victoria brings out the claws when she gets impatient.”

Half way across the field, when Nathan mutters an exasperated _come here_ , and offers Warren his arm to lean on, annoyed at Warren's slightly drunken staggering, Warren doesn't question taking it.


End file.
